I 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


VERY  WOMAN 

(SIXTINE) 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

A   VIRGIN   HEART 

A   Novel.      Translated  from  the  French 
by  ALDOUS  HUXLEY.     Cloth,  $2.00 


VERY  WOMAN 

(SIXTINE) 
A  CEREBRAL  NOVEL 

BY 

REMY  DE  GOURMONT 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH 
BY  J.  L.  BARRETS 


NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 

NEW  YORK  MCMXXII 


COPTBICIHT,   1922 
BY 

NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I    THE  DEAD  LEAVES 9 

II     MADAME  Du  BOYS 20 

III  TRAVEL  NOTES 24 

IV  REFLECTIONS 32 

V    MORE   TRAVEL   NOTES 37 

VI     DREAM   FIGURE 44 

VII  MARCELLE   AND   MARCELINE     ....     52 

VIII  THE  TRANSPARENT  CURTAIN  OF  TIME  .     57 

IX    THE  PROMENADE  OF  SIN 66 

X    THE  UNLEAVENED  DOUGH 77 

XI    DIAMOND  DUST 83 

XII    THE  ADORER 94 

XIII  CHRISTUS  PATIENS 103 

XIV  THE   FAUN 115 

XV    THE  CARNAL  HOUR 125 

XVI     THE  IDEAL  BEES 134 

XVII    THE  ADORER 143 

XVIII    A  COMPLETE  WOMAN 151 

XIX    NEW  SUGGESTIONS 164 

XX  THE  TWENTY-EIGHTH  OF  DECEMBER  .     .   174 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEE  PAQK 

XXI    THE  MYSTIC  BARK 180 

XXII    THE   SIMONIAC    . 191 

XXIII  THE  ADORER 200 

XXIV  THE  COLOR  OF  MARRIAGE 205 

XXV    DEPARTURE .     .  214 

XXVI    THE  ADORER 225 

XXVII  THE  EDUCATION  OF  MAIDENS  .      .     .     .228 

XXVIII    THE  ESTHETIC  THRILL 232 

XXIX    PANTOMIME 240 

XXX  THE  MAN  AND  THE  PRETTY  BEAST  .     .  247 

XXXI  THE  INFAMY  OF  BEING  HAPPY   .      .      .  251 

XXXII    INTOXICATION 256 

XXXIII  AN  EVENING  IN  SOCIETY 268 

XXXIV  POETIC  RAPTURE 279 

XXXV    THE  ADORER 284 

XXXVI    ANGER 287 

XXXVII     THE  ADORER 295 

XXXVIII     PRIDE 299 

XXXIX    THE  KEY  TO  THE  COFFER 306 

XL    ULTIMATE  PEACE 313 


VERY  WOMAN 

(SIXTINE) 


VERY  WOMAN 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  DEAD  LEAVES 

"When  Nature  produces  these  master- 
pieces, she  rarely  offers  them  to  the  man  who 
could  best  appreciate  and  be  worthy  of  pos- 
sessing them." 

Kant:   Essay  on  the  Beautiful. 

THEY  walked  side  by  side,  under  the  gloomy  old 
firs  whose  heavy  branches  leaned  towards 
the  yellowing  lawn. 

Countess  Aubry,  with  her  charm  of  a  negotiator 
of  worldly  loves,  had  just  hastily  brought  them  to- 
gether, as  though  they  were  predestined  for  each 
other. 

They  were  slightly  acquainted  already.  They  re- 
membered having  met  during  the  past  winter  in  the 
Marigny  Avenue  Salon,  that  haunt  of  miscarried 
glories,  and,  during  the  past  week  that  they  had  been 
staying  at  the  Chateau  de  Rabodanges  (among  sev- 
eral invalids  of  distinction)  they  had  succeeded  in 
exchanging  a  few  vaguely  suggestive  words,  a  few 
affected  witticisms,  not  without  disdain  for  such  a 
vain  communion. 

The  one  knew  that  Madame  Sixtine  Magne,  a 
9 


io  Very  Woman 

widow,  had  never  held  out  her  neck  towards  a  new 
necklace — and  believed  it.  The  other  knew  that  Hu- 
bert d'Entragues  had  dedicated  himself,  by  inclina- 
tion rather  than  by  necessity,  to  the  imperious  craft 
of  a  man  of  letters.  Her  first  impulse  had  been  to 
consider  him  a  cavalry  captain,  but  the  name  capti- 
vated her,  that  name  faded  in  history,  so  far  as  a 
pretty  woman  was  concerned,  and  which  a  young  man 
restored  to  all  its  freshness,  under  her  eyes.  Amor- 
ous and  royal  reminiscences  whose  auricular  remem- 
brance had  remained  in  her  head  like  a  viol  sound, 
like  ripplings  on  fading  silks,  and  suddenly  with 
rustlings  of  steel — an  admission  with  which  her  preci- 
osity amused  itself,  perhaps,  for  she  was  very  art- 
ful, through  pride. 

Entragues,  on  his  side,  was  at  the  point  of  con- 
fessing to  the  young  woman  that  she  dazzled  his 
imagination,  but  he  would  have  had  to  tell  her  at 
the  same  time  the  origin — too  fantastic  not  to  be 
futile — of  this  wound,  and  he  feared  to  have  the  air 
of  inventing  a  tale. 

"Then,"  he  reflected,  "her  mind  would  work, 
she  would  try  to  please  me,  forcing  herself  to  de- 
liberate charms.  The  experiment  would  be  warped. 
I  want  to  know  what  is  in  her;  I  want  to  penetrate 
coldly  into  the  mysterious  brambles  of  this  sacred 
wood." 

A  man  and  a  woman,  at  the  age  of  useful  de- 
ceits, are  never  cold  or  truthful,  face  to  face. 
Hubert  judged  himself  capable  of  acting  naturally, 


The  Dead  Leaves  n 

but  where  does  the  natural  begin  with  a  being  en- 
dowed with  several  spare  souls?  Sixtine  was  but 
half  duped  and,  from  the  first  words,  let  it  be  per- 
ceived. 

"Are  you  familiar  with  all  the  emotions  of  a  re- 
turn?" asked  Entragues.  "It  is  delicious  and  tor- 
turing. You  enter,  agitated  and  unbalanced  and, 
in  the  confusion  of  brief  thoughts,  you  say  to  your- 
self :  'Can  she  be  there !  No,  she  is  not  there !' 
The  fear  of  a  sudden  grief  has  anticipated  the  de- 
ception :  can  it  be  that  such  joys  are  attained  outside 
of  dreams?  'She  is  not  there.  There  is  no  danger. 
What?  No  double  lock?  A  night  lamp?  Is  she 
there?'  Yes,  she  was  there,  asleep  in  her  rose- 
colored  morning-gown;  she  had  risen  at  the  sound 
of  the  key  and,  with  bare  feet  and  disheveled  hair, 
pale  with  emotion,  kissed  your  face,  whatever  her 
eyes  fell  upon — lips,  brow,  nose,  beard — one  arm 
gently  entwining  itself  about  your  neck,  the  other 
trembling  at  first  with  the  hesitancy  of  not  knowing 
where  to  rest.  She  cried,  meanwhile,  like  a  halluci- 
nated person:  'It  is  you!  It  is  you!'  Then  she 
stepped  back  to  gaze  at  you,  seemed  to  doubt,  say- 
ing :  'Is  it  really  you  ?'  And  she  coyly  gave  herself 
to  you,  resting  on  your  shoulder,  gave  herself  again 
with  an  'I  am  yours,  still  yours,  as  before !'  You  are 
thrilled  with  happiness.  To  depart  leaving  tears,  to 
find  a  smile  upon  your  return,  a  being  transported 
by  your  presence — that  is  a  real  pleasure,  mingled 
somewhat  with  that  necessary  vanity  of  feeling  your- 


12  Very  Woman 

self  indispensable  to  some  one.  A  special  vanity 
in  which  the  male  experiences  a  despotic  satisfac- 
tion." 

"Are  you  thus  expected?"  asked  Sixtine. 

"Who?  I?  No,  but  it  might  happen,  and  you 
see  that  I  have  felt  it  while  talking  to  you.  The 
slightest  impulse  diverts  me  from  the  present,  the 
very  tone  of  a  voice  rouses  in  me  an  inner  activity 
and  every  possibility  of  life  opens  before  me." 

"You  must  be  wonderful  at  pretending!" 

"Ah,  Madame,"  answered  Entragues,  "imagina- 
tion does  not  destroy  sincerity:  it  clothes  sincerity 
with  brocatels  and  rubies,  places  a  diadem  on  it,  but 
the  same  body  of  a  woman  is  under  the  royal  cloak, 
just  as  it  is  under  tatters.  To  adorn  truth  is  to  re- 
spect it.  This  makes  me  recall  those  old  evangelis- 
taries that  are  so  covered  with  illuminations  that  pro- 
fane eyes  seek  the  holy  text  in  vain." 

"There  are  difficult  writings,"  said  Sixtine. 

"Divination  is  necessary  when  one  cannot  deci- 
pher. Have  not  women,  the  illiterates  of  love,  all 
the  intuitions  of  ignorance?  Now  then!  if  I  said 
to  you;  'The  heart  feels  the  heart's  beating,'  you 
would  agree.  We  are  still  taken  in  by  some  old 
aphorisms." 

"Nothing  is  so  good  as  to  let  oneself  be  taken!" 

Instantly  astonished  by  a  boldness  of  speech, 
whose  precise  meaning  Entragues  sought  in  her  eyes, 
she  laughed. 

This  purely  voluntary  laughter  whose  essence  he 
notwithstanding  penetrated,  troubled  him.  A  care- 


The  Dead  Leaves  13 

ful  writer  always  on  the  quest  for  the  exact  word, 
new  or  old,  rare  or  common,  but  of  exact  meaning, 
he  imagined  that  everybody  spoke  as  he  himself 
wrote,  when  he  wrote  well.  It  was  in  good  faith 
that  he  stubbornly  persisted  in  reflecting,  suddenly 
arrested  by  a  disquietude  in  the  presence  of  such 
words  of  conversation,  habiliments  of  pure  vanity. 
The  knowledge  of  this  eccentricity  had  never  cured 
him  of  it,  nor  was  he  helped  by  the  punishments 
of  repeating  this  mea  citlpa  after  each  mistake, 
taken  from  Goethe  and  composed  for  his  personal 
use:  "When  he  hears  words,  Entragues  always 
believes  there  is  a  thought  behind  them." 

This  greatly  complicated  his  life  and  his  talks, 
inducing  considerable  hesitations  in  his  replies,  but  he 
was  concerned  only  with  literary  anatomy  and  he 
loved  to  encounter  complex  minds  upon  whose  mo- 
mentary intricacies  he  would  later  throw  light,  by 
deduction. 

Since  the  nut  might  be  empty,  he  threw  a  pebble 
at  the  tree  so  as  to  cause  several  others  to  fall. 

"It  is  preferable  to  give  than  to  be  robbed." 

"Oh!"  Sixtine  replied,  "the  sensation  is  quite  dif- 
ferent. First  of  all,  not  every  one  who  wishes  it, 
can  be  robbed.  It  is  not  even  enough  to  let  one's 
door  ajar,  Monsieur  d' Entragues." 

He  felt  that  she  had  pronounced  those  last  words 
in  an  insidious  voice,  but  why?  While  waiting  to 
understand,  he  responded : 

"That  itself  would  be  quite  a  childish  system. 
One  usually  places  sentinels  to  guard  the  treasure 


14  Very  Woman 

chests  and  one  provides  locks  for  odd  boxes.  The 
spice  in  the  pleasure  of  robbing  lies  in  forcing, 
breaking,  or  taking  a  thing  to  pieces.  True  art- 
ists are  repelled  when  there  is  nothing  to  do  except 
thrust  out  the  hand.  But  this  is  the  most  elementary 
ethics  :  no  pleasure  without  effort." 

"You  are  speaking  of  robbers,  I  of  persons  who 
are  robbed.  You  can  belong  only  to  the  one,  I  to 
the  other  class,  the  class  that  is  at  the  mercy  of  an 
eventual  rifling.  I  wanted  to  explain  that  it  requires 
more  than  that  the  door  should  be  ajar  or,  in  fine, 
easy  to  open,  for  if  one  perfects  the  fastenings  too 
thoroughly,  the  risk  is  taken  of  being  assured  a  truly 
uncivil  security.  Well,  more  than  all  this,  it  is  need- 
ful that  there  be  visible  or  suspected  objects  to  steal; 
it  is  needful  that,  by  appearances,  by  external  and 
attractive  promises,  the  thief  be  tempted." 

"You  have  anticipated  me,  Madame,  in  awarding 
yourself  this  personal  compliment.  I  was  about 
to  make  it.  But  you  know,  better  than  I  do,  your 
gifts  and  all  that  might  draw  curious  and  thievish 
hands  to  the  dreamed  of  coffer." 

"Too  much  frankness  and  irony,  Monsieur  d'En- 
tragues.  You  were  not  born  a  thief." 

"Alas !  I  have  no  hiding  place  secure  enough  for 
such  larceny.  My  left  hand  would  not  know  what 
to  do  with  what  my  right  hand  pilfered." 

The  somewhat  brutal  candor  of  this  disinterest- 
edness did  not  seem  to  wound  her.  On  the  contrary, 
she  thought : 

"He  is  no   fool.     Another  would  have  thrown 


The  Dead  Leaves  15 

himself  at  my  imprudence,  would  instantly  have 
urged  me  to  let  myself  be  taken!" 

For  his  part,  Hubert,  seeing  that  the  nuts  were 
decidely  meaty  and  not  too  tasteless,  reflected : 

"I  will  amuse  myself  again  with  throwing  a  few 
stones  at  the  branches." 

Sixtine  forestalled  him : 

"What  end  are  you  aiming  at?  Love  is  too  fleet- 
ing for  your  stability,  let  us  admit.  In  that  case, 
where  does  your  life  lead?  Ah!  poet,  to  success?" 

"I  am  not  a  poet.  I  do  not  know  how  to  cut  my 
thoughts  into  little  morsels  that  may  be  equal  or  un- 
equal, according  to  the  chance  of  the  chopping  knife. 
My  prose  gets  its  rhythm  only  through  my  breath. 
Only  the  pin  thrusts  of  sensation  mark  its  accents 
and  the  royal  puerility  of  rich  rhymes  passes  my 
understanding  .  .  ." 

The  vlouement  of  a  crow's  wings  agitated  the  air 
above  the  trees.  Hubert  remained  silent,  listening. 
Then: 

''Vlouement,  that's  it,  vlouement  of  wings,  with 
the  v  v  v.  Is  it  the  v  v  v  or  the  f  f  f  ?  The  file- 
ment  of  wings?  No,  vlouement  is  better.  Once 
more,  crow !" 

Sixtine,  a  trifle  bewildered,  stared  at  him  open- 
mouthed. 

"Those  damned  crow  wings — one  cannot  describe 
them!  Oh!  success!  Does  the  apple  tree  solicit 
applause  for  having  borne  fruit?  From  this  one 
could  construct  quasi-evangelical  parables.  If  I 
am  not  my  own  judge,  and  if  I  displease  myself, 


1 6  Very  Woman 

what  matter  though  I  please  others?  Who  are  the 
others?  Is  there  in  the  world  an  existence  outside 
of  myself  ?  Possibly  there  is,  but  I  am  not  aware  of 
it.  The  world  is  myself,  it  owes  me  its  existence, 
I  have  created  it  with  my  senses;  it  is  my  slave  and 
no  one  else  has  any  power  over  it.  If  we  were 
thoroughly  certain  of  the  fact  that  nothing  exists 
outside  of  ourselves,  how  prompt  would  be  the  cure 
of  our  vanities,  how  quickly  our  pleasures  would  be 
purged  of  it !  Vanity  is  the  fictive  bond  which  links 
us  to  an  imaginary  exterior  world.  A  little  effort 
breaks  it  and  we  are  free !  Free,  but  lonely,  lonely  in 
the  frightful  solitude  where  we  are  born,  where  we 
live  and  die." 

"What  a  sad  philosophy,  but  what  a  proud  one !" 

"It  contains  less  pride  than  sadness,  and  I  would 
give  much  of  its  arrogance  so  as  never  to  feel  its 
bitterness." 

"Who  led  you  to  it?"  she  queried,  interested  in 
these  matters  which  seemed  sufficiently  new  to  her 
mind. 

"But  it  is  natural.  How  conceive  a  life  different 
from  what  it  clearly  appears  to  eyes  that  can  see? 
Yes !  perhaps  a  certain  illusion  is  possible  .  .  . 
What  a  pity,  doubtless,  what  a  pity  for  me  that  I  did 
not  meet  you  earlier — years  ago.  I  would  have 
loved  you,  and  then.  .  .  " 

"What  would  have  befallen  your  destiny,  as  a  re- 
sult?" 

"You  would  have  deluded  me  about  life's  value, 


The  Dead  Leaves  17 

Madame,"  Hubert  continued,  with  a  poetic  enthusi- 
asm that  bordered  on  persiflage.  "I  would  have 
drunk,  like  an  external  absinthe,  the  fluid  illusion 
of  your  sea-green  eyes  and  would  have  chained  my- 
self to  life  by  the  golden  chain  of  your  blond  hair." 

She  veiled  herself  with  indifference  lightly  em- 
broidered with  irony  and,  believing  herself  sheltered 
from  a  too  inquisitive  glance,  ingenuously  replied : 

"It  is  really  but  three  years  since  I  was  twenty- 
seven.  It  is  now  the  thirtieth  year,  or  almost." 

He  looked  at  her  from  head  to  foot,  but  without 
insolence. 

"What  frankness !  But  you  have  no  need  to  lie." 
His  eyes  returned  to  her  figure,  which  was  a  little 
full,  he  thought. 

"Yes,  esthetic,  isn't  it?"  hazarded  Sixtine,  neg- 
ligently lifting  her  arms  to  fasten  some  pin  to  her 
coiffure. 

The  gesture  was  fine  and  instrumental  in  making 
her  bust  more  delicate  in  line. 

He  prudently  replied : 

"Esthetic?  Oh,  no!  It  seems  good  and  with 
no  treacheries." 

A  smile,  quickly  banished,  attested  the  woman's 
contentment  and  was  the  most  feminine  efflorescence 
of  the  old  human  perversities.  In  a  slow,  unde- 
ceived voice,  she  said: 

"It  is  lost  time  to  wish  to  love  me." 

"See,"  Hubert  returned,  "you  breathe  on  my  bub- 
bles and  my  sole  and  last  chance  of  illusion  vanishes, 


1 8  Very  Woman 

for  in  placing  my  desires  in  the  past,  I  secretly  con- 
structed a  bridge  spanning  the  present.  Ah !  Ma- 
dame, what  transcendental  cruelty !" 

She  was  conscious  of  having  taken  a  wretched 
crossroad,  and  of  having  become  bemired  there. 

They  spoke  no  more. 

The  shadow  diffused  itself  in  swift  waves. 
Slightly  nervous,  Sixtine  walked  towards  the  light 
of  a  nearby  glade,  at  the  foot  of  the  avenue.  There, 
the  oaks  and  beeches,  whose  foliage  was  already 
brightened  by  the  setting  sun,  were  grouped  in  a 
narrow  grove.  The  wind  passed,  stirring  the  dry 
leaves.  A  low  and  heavy  branch  bent  down  with 
the  sound  of  a  rustling  of  stuffs.  Like  a  drop  of 
rain,  a  leaf,  then  many  leaves,  descended  with  a 
slow  moaning  sound. 

"They  follow  me!  They  pursue  me!"  she  cried, 
caught  in  the  vortex  she  vainly  fled. 

And  swept  away,  like  a  leaf  in  the  circular  flight 
of  wind,  she  drew  near  Entragues,  distracted,  pant- 
ing, crying  all  the  time : 

"The  leaves  pursue  me,  the  dead  leaves  pursue 
me!" 

"What  is  the  matter,"  Hubert  asked,  surprised  by 
such  a  strange  crisis. 

While,  still  frantic  and  trembling,  she  seized  his 
arm  and  leaned  against  it,  he  coldly  added : 

"Have  you  ever  committed  a  crime  in  your  life?" 

This  ironic  interrogation  changed  the  nature  of 
the  fever,  like  scalding  water  on  a  stone. 

"Perhaps!"  she  answered,  suddenly  pale. 


The  Dead  Leaves  19 

"Then  you  become  altogether  interesting." 

It  was  beyond  her  strength  to  retort  to  this  im- 
pertinence. With  a  trembling  of  all  her  little  mus- 
cles, and  without  knowing  why  she  did  it,  she  tried 
to  pull  off  her  gloves.  When  one  of  her  hands  was 
free,  she  shook  it,  pulled  it,  cracked  its  joints. 

"Excuse  me,"  Entragues  continued.  He  took  a 
malicious  pleasure  in  making  the  untuned  instru- 
ment vibrate.  "But  is  there  not  a  stain  on  the  little 
finger?" 

"No,  it  was  the  poison." 

This  came  from  her  lips  with  the  calmness  of  a 
meditated  confession. 

His  eyes  sincerely  troubled,  Hubert  watched  the 
monster  who  disengaged  herself  and  fled,  throwing 
these  words  to  him  as  an  adieu: 

"I  am  leaving  tomorrow,  come  to  see  me." 


CHAPTER  II 

MADAME  DU   BOYS 

".  .  .  Quid  agunt  in  corpore  casto  Cerussa 
et  minium,  centumque  venena  colorum? 
Mentis  honor  morumque  decus  sunt  vincula 
Conjugii.  .  .  ." 

(Sancti  Claudius  Marius  Victor,  De  per- 
versis  suae  aetatis  moribus) 

HUBERT  had  left  Rabodanges  a  few  days  after 
Sixtine's  departure.  The  unvaried  green  of 
the  fields  saddened  him  and,  despite  the  ingenuity  of 
the  countess,  deprived  of  the  company  of  the  young 
woman  who  puzzled  him  to  the  utmost,  the  chateau 
seemed  to  him  as  though  plunged  in  a  funereal 
widowhood. 

He  did  not  even  execute  his  plans  of  visiting  the 
Mortagne  Trappists,  but  took  the  train  and  entered 
Paris  one  evening  in  a  state  of  real  satisfaction. 

For  him,  Paris  was  neither  the  streets  nor  the 
boulevards  and  theaters.  Paris,  for  Entragues,  was 
confined  within  the  somewhat  narrow  bounds  of  his 
study,  peopled  with  pleasant  phantoms  of  his  imagi- 
nation. There,  sad  and  vague  beings,  pensive  and 
formless,  stirred  restlessly,  imploring  existence, 
Entragues  lived  with  them  in  an  almost  disquieting 
familiarity.  He  beheld  them,  heard  them,  repaired 


Madame  Du  Boys  ti 

with  them  to  whatever  sphere  their  activity  neces- 
sitated. In  short,  he  underwent  the  keenest  phe- 
nomena of  hallucination. 

Thus  it  was  that,  on  the  morrow  of  his  return, 
Madame  du  Boys  came  to  occupy  him  with  her  ad- 
ventures. It  was  a  matter  of  reconciling  her  in  a 
logical  way  with  her  husband  whom  she  had  aban- 
doned, to  follow  to  Geneva  a  Polish  count,  retired 
there  after  sundry  nihilistic  adventures.  Artemise 
du  Boys  was  how  she  spelled  her  name  after  her 
adulterous  lark,  the  while  her  husband,  secretary- 
cashier  of  the  Union  de  la  Bonne-Science,  the  simple 
Monsieur  Dubois,  bewailed  his  irreparable  misfor- 
tune. 

He  groaned  and  Madame  du  Boys  grew  bored,  an 
excellent  occasion  for  once  more  renewing  the  bond 
and  putting  into  practice  several  verses  from  the 
Gospels.  Irreparable?  And  the  pardon?  One 
was  on  the  point  of  agreeing  to  ask  it,  the  other 
waited  for  her  to  force  his  hand. 

"Ah!  Madame  du  Boys,"  mused  Entragues,  gaz- 
ing upon  his  fair  visitor,  "You  do  riot  know  your 
husband.  Write  to  him  again.  Just  say :  'I  was  a 
little  lark  of  a  woman  and  I  was  lured  away !'  Re- 
peat this  simple  idea  through  four  beautiful  pages 
in  a  tiny  slanting  handwriting  that  trembles  and  is 
steeped  in  tears  (Oh!  but  true  tears,  scientific  tears, 
acidulated  and  proportioned  with  the  desired  salt  of 
grief), — do  this,  O  my  love,  and  you  will  see." 

Without  awaiting  her  reply,  and  while  Madame 
du  Boys  meditated,  a  modest  and  very  agreeable 


22  Very  Woman 

sinner,  Entragues  went  to  comfort  the  secretary  of 
the  Bonne-Science.  A  simple  and  quite  suitable 
office:  journals,  brochures,  registers,  a  general  list 
of  the  founding  members,  patrons,  donors,  residents, 
foreigners,  honorary  members,  orders  depending  on 
the  results  of  preliminary  payments,  sums  deposited, 
sums  due,  and  different  titles. 

"You  are  sad?  Yes,  a  broken  life.  But,  Mon- 
sieur Dubois,  all  lives  are  broken,  just  as  all  sticks 
thrown  in  the  water  are  broken.  Existence  bends 
souls,  we  are  not  made  for  life.  A  deception  gives 
it  to  us,  trickery  conserves  it  for  us.  Ah!  I  know 
that  philosophy  is  not  your  forte;  neither  founder 
nor  patron,  nothing  but  an  appointed  secretary.  If 
you  are  not  a  philosopher,  why  did  you  marry  such  a 
pretty  woman  as  Madame  du  Boys?  Only  a  phil- 
osopher could  be  justified  in  committing  such  im- 
prudences, for  he  knows  how  to  make  an  abstraction 
at  the  proper  time.  Figures  have  taught  you  other 
duties.  Everything  is  calculated  on  the  register 
page,  and  what  is  absent  is  called  memory.  Isn't  it 
the  pure  truth,  stripped  of  all  symbols,  that  you  still 
love  her?  Act  as  a  Christian,  not  as  a  coward  en- 
slaved to  habits.  So!  you  have  charge  of  this  weak 
soul  and  you  should,  like  the  Good  Shepherd,  bear 
her  on  your  shoulders  and  save  her  from  the  devour- 
ing lion.  But  why  do  you  not  go  after  her,  since 
she  has  lost  her  way?  Pride  chains  you  to  your 
books.  You  think  you  are  a  Christian,  but  you  are 
a  stoic.  Monsieur  Dubois,  modern  Good  Shep- 
herds use  railroads  and  telegraphs  without  shame. 


Madame  Du  Boys  23 

Go !  Ah !  the  donors  ?  Well,  telegraph !  No,  it  is 
at  least  necessary  that  the  sinful  sheep  go  half  way, 
that  the  sinner  behave  like  a  Magdalene  and  weep. 
Well,  I  will  bring  her  to  you.  Thus,  your  wife  left 
you  to  follow  her  pleasure;  she  returns  somewhat 
atremble,  but  confident,  and  you  will  pardon  her? 
Will  you  open  your  door  to  her,  your  arms,  your 
bed?  Will  you  write  'Memory'  in  the  debit  side  of 
past  days,  under  days  of  marital  solitude,  meaning, 
in  this  instance,  oblivion.  And  will  the  first  repast 
together  be  a  holiday  feast,  and  the  first  night  to- 
gether a  night  of  happiness?  You  will  do  all  this, 
Monsieur  Dubois,  because  you  are  a  Christian  and 
not  a  stoic.  I  slandered  you.  And  you  will  tell  me 
of  the  interview,  of  the  noble  pardon,  in  low  tones 
for  my  personal  edification,  and  I  will  be  able  to 
narrate  it,  aloud,  for  the  edification  of  the  age?" 

Having  ended  these  reveries,  Entragues,  to  amuse 
himself,  recopied  in  ink  the  note  book  leaves  on 
which  he  had  scribbled  while  on  the  train,  during 
evenings,  in  his  bed,  during  mornings,  or  in  the  soli- 
tude of  the  avenues. 


CHAPTER  III 

TRAVEL  NOTES 

Rai-Aube 

"And  when  you  will  be  thus  formed,  when 
you  will  be  imbued  with  this  truth,  'there 
is  no  truth,  nothing  truly  existent  for  you 
except  what  your  fertile  mind  gives/  observe 
the  general  course  of  the  world  and,  letting 
it  follow  its  own  way,  associate  with  the 
minority." 

Goethe :  Testament. 

TT^REUX. — To  see  trains  pass  by — to  see  life 
JLS  pass  by — never  to  go  within  save  to  strike 
cushions. 

A  little  farther. — Trains  have  a  destination;  life 
has  none.  But  life's  originality  lies  precisely  in 
having  no  destination.  I  occasionally  find  in  it,  as 
in  old  lace,  the  same  charm  of  uselessness. 

A  little  farther. — I  viewed  the  landscape  as  far  as 
Dreux.  The  unconsciousness  of  the  vegetable 
kingdom  is  a  decidedly  too  melancholy  void. 
To  become  interested  in  it,  one  must  make  it  live 
by  incorporating  oneself  with  the  trees  and  grass, 
transferring  the  sentient  soul  of  a  man  into  the 
oak's  trunk.  I  am  an  oak,  I  am  a  holly-tree,  I  am 
a  wild  poppy,  but  I  realize  it,  while  the  oak,  the 
holly-tree,  the  wild  poppy  do  not :  for  this  reason 
24 


Travel  Notes  ±5 

they  do  not  exist.     Pantheists  are  very  fine  fellows. 

Nonancourt. — These  syllables  shouted  through 
the  train  evoke  a  pretty  convent  of  nuns,  rather  dis- 
solute before  the  reform  of  Borromee;  afterwards, 
it  was  devoted  to  God  until  the  revolutionary  dis- 
persal. Now  the  house,  henceforth  plebeian,  serves 
as  a  barn,  stable  and  pigsty.  As  the  notary  who 
last  sold  it  said:  "It  will  serve  as  a  farm."  Cows 
now  ruminate  where  women  once  prayed — a  notable 
advance. 

Tillieres. — A  ravine  cuts  this  plain  in  two,  a  das- 
tardly act,  life. 

Verneuil. — I  was  alone  since  leaving  Paris.  A 
man  enters,  opens  his  newspaper  and  expands  into 
a  gauloiserie.  If  it  were  evening,  near  his  better 
half,  or  if,  in  my  place,  some  obliging  girl  revealed 
a  part  of  her  foot !  These  flights  of  animalism  are 
truly  painful  to  a  calm  man.  The  flower-like  open- 
ing contracts;  the  joyous  flame  of  eyes  brightens 
into  a  waxing  ferocity;  cruel  lust  opens  its  mouth 
and  shows  its  teeth.  Awaking:  a  searching  glance: 
the  mimicry  by  degrees  is  extinguished  and  there 
remains  the  disappointed  ennui  of  a  vain  excitement. 
No,  I  do  not  care  to  serve  as  an  aphrodisiac  to  citi- 
zens. To  think  of  this  would  compel  you  towards 
a  monachal  literature,  hard  and  contemptuous  of 
vile  lust. 

Bourth  or  nearby. — The  man  speaks.  It  was  in- 
evitable. He  speaks  of  himself,  full  of  a  need  of 
making  himself  known,  of  introducing  the  passerby 
into  his  little  universe.  He  travels  for  a  bookseller 


26  Very  Woman 

of  religious  books.  He  goes  from  parsonage  to  par- 
sonage, well  received  by  the  cures,  who  ask  him  to 
dinner.  A  good  clientele  and  good  payers.  His 
center  is  Verneuil ;  thence  he  radiates,  like  an  apostle. 
Usually  a  horse  and  carriage,  rented  for  the  season, 
conducts  him  from  church  to  church;  having  some 
business  to  transact  at  Laigle,  he  took  a  train  to 
amuse  himself;  to  amuse  himself  he  climbed  into  a 
first-class  apartment  with  a  second-class  ticket. 
(There  is  no  inspection  at  such  hours.)  "Vern- 
euil's  a  fine  town.  A  rare  thing  for  the  province 
(isn't  it  so,  between  ourselves),  that  this  big  bor- 
ough has  a  well-kept  inn,  quite  renovated."  He  is 
a  free-thinker,  but  tolerant,  enveloping  with  the 
same  sympathetic  pity,  children,  women,  priests, 
devout  souls — more  stupid  than  ill-meaning,  he  as- 
sures you.  As  for  himself,  if  a  God  exists  he  will 
go  straight  to  Heaven,  never  having  hurt  a  fly. 
Sound  instruction  will  gradually  cure  us  of  religion. 
He  has  no  fear  on  this  score  and,  his  conscience 
quite  tranquil,  places  his  Corncille  de  la  Pierre  for 
the  best.  Unmarried,  but  desiring  a  marriage  so  as 
to  have  sturdy  little  republicans,  strong  defenders 
of  la  Patrie:  Alsace  and  Lorraine,  Gambetta,  and 
so  forth. 

Laigle. — He  offers  me  something.  I  politely  de- 
cline, he  withdraws.  Throughout  the  world,  this 
matter  interests  the  millions  of  similarly  constituted 
minds :  for  whom  do  you  work,  poor  unconscious 
bees?  The  species?  But  does  the  intelligence  of  a 
few  balance  the  universal  stupidity  ? 


Travel  Notes  27 

Rai-Aube. — A  village  I  never  again  shall  see,  a 
village  with  such  a  pretty  name,  with  such  a  fine 
combination  of  radiant  words — aurora  and  ray — an 
alliance  of  syllables  married  by  a  morning  smile; 
grasses  watered  by  the  freshness  of  dew,  transpar- 
ent springs,  murmuring  fluidity  of  waters  flowing 
under  the  abundant  rushes :  all  this,  Rai-Aube,  and 
oblivion,  and  the  ineffable,  palpitates  in  the  white 
letters  of  your  name,  alluring  and  fugitive  rebus 
hung  on  the  gable  of  the  station!  Remembrance 
rather  than  vision :  in  my  youth  I  lived  among  these 
vernal  delights  and  steeped  myself  in  them.  I  do 
not  belong  to  towns  and  a  built-up  plot  of  ground 
does  not  incite  me  to  excessive  joys.  All  that  was 
created  by  youthful  eyes  remains  young,  and  for 
me  the  country-side  often  has  the  sex  of  its  spelling, 
even  under  the  surplice  of  snow.  That  alone  re- 
mains of  my  earliest  years :  all  is  dead,  whether  by 
real  death  or  the  death  of  memory.  The  tenderness 
of  vague  figures  bending  towards  my  precocious  or- 
phanhood, is  the  farthest  removed;  of  school,  the 
horror  is  still  painful  to  remember;  a  Dantesque 
and  futile  horror  inflicted  upon  my  pitiful  childhood. 
But  already,  due  a  little  to  my  will,  the  world  re- 
treated from  me  and  by  a  slow  or  sudden  recrea- 
tion, I  reformed  for  myself  a  life  more  harmonious 
with  my  intimate  sense.  But  already,  in  arrogant 
moments,  I  scorned  everything*  external  to  me, 
everything  that  had  not  been  reformed  and  re- 
ground  by  the  machine  ceaselessly  in  motion  in  my 
head.  Excepting  the  unknowable  principle,  I  have 


28  Very  Woman 

fashioned  everything  anew;  at  least,  for  scepticism 
even  gnaws  at  one's  personality,  such  is  the  allusion 
in  which  I  have  confined  myself. 

With  such  a  fixed  determination,  with  this  Kan- 
tian system  which  can  be  called  transcendental  ego- 
ism, my  life  has  marched  with  a  relatively  light 
pace.  Of  all  the  griefs  which  my  will  has  not  suc- 
ceeded in  putting  aside,  the  heaviest  to  bear  is  my 
very  solitude.  Never  having  surrendered  to  its  de- 
ceits, I  know  not  if  hope  be  aught  but  a  bleeding 
spur,  driving  man  towards  a  future  nothingness. 
I  know  not  if  the  wound  opened  without  respite  and 
the  sight  of  the  spilled  blood  be  not  powerful  stimu- 
lants necessary  for  the  functioning  of  the  human 
mechanism.  I  have  never  experienced  them.  I 
only  believe  in  the  final  charnel-house,  but  without 
coveting  it.  Life  does  not  yet  displease  me  suffi- 
ciently. Without  this,  having  no  philosophical  prin- 
ciples to  converge  with  a  possible  practice,  I  would 
be  consistent  with  my  disgust  and  would  give  it  my 
sanction.  Like  Grantor,  I  will  die  "without  being 
astonished;"  if  my  organs  are  still  sound  when 
death  comes,  perhaps  regretfully.  As  for  survival, 
on  this  point  I  have  no  such  tranquilizing  ideas  as  has 
the  traveling  salesman  of  Dreux.  Perhaps  the  de- 
lightful Unconscious  reserves  some  of  its  good 
tricks  for  the  truly  supreme,  last  moment  of  cor- 
poreal decomposition!  This  relative  fear  doubtless 
comes  to  me  from  my  Christian  youth,  and  I  re- 
pudiate neither  the  one  nor  the  other;  Catholicism 
is  an  aristocracy.  I  do  not  know  how  this  positive 


Travel  Notes  29 

religion  can  come  to  be  allied  in  me  with  subjective 
idealism ;  it  is  an  obscure  amalgam,  like  all  heresies. 
Theology  always  procured  me  the  most  agreeable 
reading;  from  Augustine  I  can  go  to  Claudius 
Mamertinus;  there  the  joys  are  not  less  because  of 
the  curiosity.  How  I  would  have  loved  to  be  a 
bishop  in  some  less  modern  Rome,  or  a  cardinal! 
If  I  dwelt  on  this  rather  sterile  desire,  a  sensation 
of  a  deficient  life  would  clutch  my  throat,  a  vulgar 
sensation  that  my  pride  contemptuously  repels. 
And  then,  have  I  not  of  my  own  accord  tasted  the 
mystic  happiness  and  the  celestial  anguishes  of  epis- 
copacy? Have  I  not  clothed  myself  with  the  violet 
robe  lifted  at  the  bottom,  or  trailing  up  the  stairs 
of  the  altar?  Have  I  not  ascended,  mitre  on  head, 
the  steps  of  the  presidial  chair?  What  then  would 
reality  serve  me,  when  I  have  the  dream  and  the 
faculty  of  changing  myself  like  Proteus,  the  faculty 
of  successively  possessing  all  forms  of  life,  all 
states  of  soul  which  man  diversifies  himself. 

Surdon. — Curled  feathers  bob  up  and  plunge  into 
the  window.  Seeing  me  alone,  the  female  traveler 
hesitates,  but  the  whistle  has  blown,  a  guard  shoves 
her  inside.  She  sits  down  opposite  me,  fallen  there 
somewhat  out  of  breath;  she  is  uneasy  although1  she 
is  not  blushing.  The  hesitation  came  from  the  fear 
of  appearing  to  have  expressly  chosen  the  compart- 
ment in  which  sat  one  man.  I  try  to  reassure  her 
with  very  polished  phrases,  but  I  succeed  imper- 
fectly. I  am  quite  certain  that  some  good  proverb 
would  amuse  and  pique  her.  I  end  with :  "Occasion 


30  Very  Woman 

makes  the  thief."  In  the  province,  proverbs,  that 
grammatical  archaeology,  are  still  the  current  coin 
of  conversation;  they  permit  the  saying  of  nothing 
at  all  while  appearing  to  say  a  great  deal.  She 
appreciated  my  adage  and  complained  of  the  habit- 
ual grossness  of  men.  I  answer  her:  "That  is  be- 
cause women  always  desire  what  is  not  offered  them 
and  scorn  what  is  offered  them.  A  delicate  man, 
by  indefinable  signs,  lets  his  fancy  be  guessed,  and 
does  not  commit  himself  to  a  decisive  movement 
until  the  exact  moment  when  he  sees  that  it  is 
shared."  She  smiles:  "How  does  one  feel  this?" 
I  answer :  "The  acquiescences  are  diverse,  but  there 
is  a  special  flicker  of  the  eye-lashes,  very  slow,  which 
it  is  difficult  to  mistake."  She  looks  at  me  with  as- 
tonishment. A  very  honest  woman,  amused  at  this 
scabrous  conversation,  but  inexperienced.  Her 
youth  and  the  rosiness  of  her  complexion  bespeak 
a  recent  marriage  and  little  maternity :  openly  curi- 
ous, having  an  eternity  of  ten  years  before  her,  to 
learn  the  secret.  Otherwise  pretty,  and  with  much 
distinction,  that  modern  name  for  grace;  between 
blonde  and  brunette ;  clear,  rather  large  eyes,  the 
lower  part  of  her  face  having  no  hint  of  brutishness. 
The  trip  from  Surdon  to  Argentan  takes  sixteen 
minutes;  our  several  questions  and  replies  have  ex- 
hausted them.  The  brake  is  put  on,  we  slow  up. 
Before  I  could  anticipate  her  movement,  she  opens 
the  carriage  door  until  the  train  comes  to  a  stop, 
holds  the  door  back,  and  there  I  am,  surprised  to  re- 


Travel  Notes  31 

ceive,  at  the  same  time*,  an  equivocal  bow  and  a 
glance  of  surprising  intensity. 

Is  it  an  invitation  to  run  after  her?  I  believe 
it  is  and  I  hasten  out,  but  I  cannot  find  her.  I  had 
rapidly  taken  my  light  hand  baggage,  valise,  rug, 
overcoat,  etc.  I  am  not  forced  to  return  to  my  rail- 
way carriage  and  I  leave  the  station  to  seek  the 
carriage  bearing  the  arms  of  the  countess.  She  is 
waiting  for  me  and,  thank  heaven !  I  am  the  only 
one  expected  to-day.  I  will  travel  tete-a-tete  with 
my  disappointment.  The  coachman  said  the  trip 
would  take  an  hour,  I  have  an  hour  in  which  to 
school  myself  with  such  a  useless  emotion.  We 
start  off;  here  is  the  Orne  with  its  two  adjacent 
bridges  and,  along  the  stream  embanked  with  walls, 
an  amusing  house  with  balustrades  and  balconies  on 
the  water ;  an  umbrella  shop  with  a  strolling  singer's 
good-looking  red  parasol  for  an  emblem;  not  a 
carriage  in  the  peaceful  streets,  and  thus  one  leads 
to  doors  of  men  and  women,  but  not  children;  the 
birdless  cage,  the  childless  home :  it  was  a  prophecy. 
The  school,  the  college,  the  barracks,  the  office,  the 
study:  the  French  revolution  has  perfected  slavery, 
it  is  unanimous.  A  half-Gothic  church,  some  old 
gables  and  less  uniform  facades  amuse  me;  but  we 
go  quickly,  despite  the  climb ;  then  the  sorry  out- 
skirts, the  flat  road,  the  stretch  of  grey  level  grass, 
race-grounds  and  wheels,  some  poplars. 


CHAPTER  IV 

REFLECTIONS 

"In  carne  enim  ambulantes  non  secundum 
carnem  militamus." 

Saint  Paul,  Cor.,  II,  10,  3. 

ENTRAGUES  wrote  only  in  the  morning,  but 
often  extended  his  work  of  the  forenoon  into 
the  afternoon.  When  he  did  not  feel  lucid  enough 
for  the  logic  of  prose,  he  amused  himself.  Poetry, 
a  simple  music  admitting  neither  passion  nor  analy- 
sis, is  only  intended  to  suggest  vague  sentiments 
and  confused  sensations;  a  half -consciousness  suf- 
fices for  it.  In  imitation  of  Saint  Notker,  he  com- 
posed obscure  sequences  full  of  alliterations  and  in- 
terior assonances.  Walt  Whitman,  with  his  in- 
tuitive genius,  unconsciously  restored  this  lost  poetic 
form.  Entragues,  at  certain  hours,  delighted  in  it. 
This  literature  of  about  the  tenth  century,  usually 
judged  as  the  puerile  distraction  of  barbarous  monks, 
seemed  to  him  on  the  contrary  full  of  an  ingenuous 
freshness  and  of  an  ingenious  refinement.  Notker 
charmed  him,  besides,  by  the  red-blooded  boldness 
of  his  metaphors,  charmed  and  terrified  him  while 
throwing  him  on  his  knees  before  this  God  for 
whom  prayer  is  a  bleeding  holocaust,  and  who  de- 
mands, like  a  slaughtering  of  lambs,  ' 'immolated 

32 


Reflections  (33 

praise."  He  also  took  pleasure  in  a  short  and  deli- 
cate sequence  of  Godeschalk,  where  Saint  Mary 
Magdalene  "covers  with  kisses"  the  feet  of  Jesus 
"which  she  has  washed  with  her  tears."  A  monk 
of  the  eleventh  century  had  written  a  work  entitled : 
The  Nothingness  in  the  Darkness.  Entragues  could 
find  no  trace  of  it  beyond  the  mention  of  the  title. 
It  was  one  of  the  unknown  books  he  would  have 
liked  to  read. 

Apart  from  two  or  three  scorners  of  actual  life, 
a  strict  logician  of  criticism,  an  extreme  and  abso- 
lute dreamer,  an  extraordinary  creator  of  phrases 
and  shaper  of  images,  and  several  modern  poets, 
he  now  hardly  ever  opened  anything  but  antique 
theologies  and  dictionaries.  He  had  a  mania  for 
lexicons,  tools  which  seemed  to  him,  generally,  more 
interesting  than  works,  and  he  spent  over  such  in- 
struments, often  quite  useless,  many  an  idle  hour. 
Thus  en'ded  the  first  day  of  his  return. 

On  the  morrow,  after  a  night  in  which  he  had  re- 
lived some  of  the  most  characteristic  minutes  passed 
with  Sixtine  at  the  chateau  de  Rabodanges,  Hubert 
suspected  that  his  life  was  about  to  change  in  orien- 
tation, that  an  inevitable  crisis  threatened  him.  It 
was  a  propitious  occasion  for  meditation.  In  sev- 
eral weeks  perhaps — oh!  only  perhaps! — he  will 
have  undergone  obvious  modifications.  It  was  nec- 
essary— in  order  to  make  a  reckoning  of  it  later — 
to  note  certain  dominant  traits  of  the  state  of  his 
actual  mind,  to  proceed  to  a  summary  examination 
of  consciousness.  His  travel  note  book  already 


34  Very  Woman 

containing  some  sufficiently  precise  remarks  on  this 
subject,  he  restricted  himself  to  completing  them 
with  the  following  reflections: 

"I  am  ashamed  to  admit  it,  so  banal  is  this  malady : 
I  am  bored.  I  have  excruciating  awakenings.  I 
believe  in  nothing  and  I  do  not  love.  My  calling 
is  a  sad  one.  It  is  to  experiment  with  all  the  griefs 
and  all  the  horrors  of  the  human  soul,  so  that  men 
may  recognize  themselves  in  my  work  and  say: 
'Well  roared,  lion' !  Yet,  I  am  free :  without  nightly 
obligations,  neither  a  parasite  nor  a  worldling,  nor  a 
dramatic  critic,  I  retire  early,  when  I  please.  Hav- 
ing reached  my  thirtieth  year  with  hardly  any  social 
relations,  having  enough  revenue  to  be  independent, 
I  act  in  everything  as  I  desire,  heedless  of  general 
customs  and  satisfied,  for  example,  to  testify  my 
scorn  for  the  civilization  of  gas,  by  burning  my 
lamp  for  ten  hours.  I  am  free,  I  have  neither  wife 
nor  mistress.  I  fear  mistresses  for  the  confusion 
in  which  they  throw  the  regularity  of  my  work ;  but 
with  sensitive  beings  a  large  lagoon  is  hollowed 
from  principles  to  acts.  When  I  am  with  some  one, 
I  desire  solitude;  alone,  I  feel  the  disquietudes  of 
the  void. 

"When  the  commandment  of  the  flesh  hurls  me  to 
lustful  adorations,  I  blush  at  such  a  servitude  and 
at  the  earliest  lucid  moment  I  treat  myself  with  con- 
tempt. When  I  have  long  stored  the  concentrated 
poison  of  vain  seeds,  hammer  strokes  drum  on  me, 
my  organism  gives  way  and  my  brain  becomes 
troubled.  Never  having  been  kept  upright  by  hair- 


Reflections  35 

cloth,  iron  tacks,  wounds  freshened  by  perpetual 
excoriations,  pitiless  fasts,  privation  of  sleep,  nor  any 
of  the  mystic  and  Franciscan  maneuvers,  I  sub- 
due my  flesh  by  leading  it  to  pasture,  but  with  no 
more  sin  in  my  intention  than  an  invalid  who  breaks 
his  abstinence  to  procure  a  remedy.  Although 
pleasure  follows,  it  is  an  obedience  to  the  ineluc- 
table commands  governing  animated  life.  Though 
I  accept  it,  it  is  a  human  weakness.  To  love  so 
much  that  one  wishes  to  die — that  test  I  have  had  in 
adolesence,  and  the  reasonable  insensibility  of  the 
woman  I  adored  has  never  shed  any  bitterness  on 
that  far  off  remembrance.  I  do  not  smile  pityingly 
on  these  days  of  umbrageous  follies.  After  ten  or 
eleven  years,  I  am  as  sure  as  I  was  at  the  first  hour 
of  having  been  deprived  of  the  greatest  happiness 
put  within  reach  of  my  hands  by  the  Decrees,  and  in 
moments  of  emotion  this  regret  can  still  throw  a 
gloom  over  my  revery.  Since  then,  nothing  but 
transitory  pluckings;  barely,  now  and  then,  an  at- 
tempt at  the  band  broken  at  the  first  touch. 

"Far  from  being  the  aim  of  my  life,  sensation 
is  its  accident :  I  reserve  my  voluntary  strength  for 
the  tales  I  tell  my  contemporaries.  They  have  been 
found  cold  and  ironic,  but  I  have  neither  the  quality 
to  be  an  enthusiast  of  my  age,  nor  to  take  it  too 
seriously.  Another  motive  removes  me  from  emo- 
tional researches :  without  being  a  pessimist,  without 
denying  the  possibility  of  satisfaction,  without  even 
denying  happiness,  I  scorn  it.  I  do  not  seek  to  ag- 
gravate my  miseries  by  meditations  on  the  universal 


36  Very  Woman 

misery,  to  which  my  egoism,  moreover,  makes  me 
almost  indifferent.  A  state  of  perfect  peace  of 
mind  agrees  with  me.  It  is  possible  for  me  to  re- 
gret an  unhatched  joy,  but  I  wish  neither  to  pro- 
voke nor  to  lie  in  wait  for  the  hatching.  In  fine, 
there  is  no  doubt  that  I  do  not  know  how  to  live. 
A  perpetual  celebration,  my  existence  is  the  very 
negation  of  ordinary  life,  which  is  composed  of 
ordinary  loves.  I  have  no  tendency  towards  the 
altruisms  demanded  by  society.  If  ever  I  could  be 
drawn  from  myself,  for  the  benefit  of  some  crea- 
tion, it  would  be  in  the  manner  of  an  imaginative 
person,  at  all  points  re-creating  the  object  of  my 
passion,  minutely  scrutinizing  the  mechanism  of  my 
impressions.  Such  is  my  character:  it  is  obvious 
that  I  have  not  applied  myself  to  elude  the  knowl- 
edge of  myself;  and  yet  no  one  knows  better  than 
I  do  to  what  point  this  knowledge  is  puerile  and  un- 
healthy." 


CHAPTER  V 

MORE  TRAVEL  NOTES 

The  Pale  and  Green  Moon 
"In  hac  hora  anima  ebria  videtur, 
Ut  amoris  stimulis  magis  perforetur." 

Saint  Bonaventure,  Philomena, 

CHATEAU  DE  R  ABO  DANCES,  in  the  por- 
\^j  trait  chamber,  September  12. — Upon  arriv- 
ing, I  was  received  by  Henri  de  Fortier,  director  of 
la  Revue  speculative,  and  Michel  Paysant,  whose 
novels,  full  of  swelling  busts  and  caressing  glances, 
charm  families  which  mistake  impotence  for  chast- 
ity. Fortier  mentions  the  names  of  the  guests  to 
me.  None  of  my  acquaintances  are  here.  Sep- 
arated from  the  general,  her  husband,  Countess 
Aubry  brings  to  the  country,  at  the  summer  end, 
her  cosmopolitan  salon  which  is  frequented  by  the 
grand  courtiers  of  academic  or  worldly  literature. 
It  is  rumored  that  Fortier  succeeds,  in  her  gallant 
nights,  the  Bonapartist  deputy  who  recently  died 
and  with  whom  she  had  an  open  liaison.  Fortier 
assumes  the  modest  airs  of  a  host.  At  the  dinner, 
several  aristocrats  who  live  in  the  vicinity  mention 
the  fact  that  the  hunting  season  has  opened.  The 
only  interesting  face  to  see  is  that  of  a  young  fair 
woman,  with  sparkling  eyes,  who  is  either  silent  or 
37 


38  Very  Woman 

speaks  to  Madame  Aubry  alone.  A  stroll  in  the 
moonlight  follows,  then  the  neighbors  call  for  their 
carriages.  Fortier  disappears  with  the  countess. 
Paysant  takes  my  arm  and  prattles. 

He  groans  over  his  vexations  as  a  chief  clerk  of 
literature.  Just  now  he  would  like  to  rest,  even  to 
loaf,  but  a  week  does  not  pass  without  some  pub- 
lisher, old  or  young,  coming  to  entreat  of  him  a 
volume  to  restore  his  business  or  launch  his  book- 
shop. Accordingly,  his  repressed  Gallic  nature 
would  freely  awake  and  he  would  write  several  jolly 
stories.  But  the  unity  of  his  work!  That  would 
no  longer  turn  out  to  be  Paysant,  and  the  Academy 
would  perhaps  knit  its  brow.  He  attempts  a  laugh, 
but  one  feels  an  apprehensive  reverence  within  the 
depths  of  his  deferential  brain.  A  silence,  and  he 
greedily  describes  the  young  woman  I  had  noticed. 
The  technique  of  the  patrician  gives  to  his  eloquence 
a  disinterested  tone,  but  one  divines  the  wet  mouth 
and  the  hand,  with  kneading  gestures,  caressing  the 
absent  forms.  I  maintain  that  women  are  neither 
beautiful  nor  ugly,  and  that  their  whole  charm  radi- 
ates from  their  sex :  desire  sketches  beauty  and  love 
completes  it.  A  certain  ugly  creature,  in  the  vulgar 
sense  of  the  word,  has  been  able  to  assume  an  ideal 
beauty,  while  another  woman,  by  all  judged  admir- 
able, has  not  passed  beyond  the  limbo  of  a  rough 
draught,  never  having  been  loved.  Paysant  shouts 
this  paradox:  feminine  beauty  is  real  and  indepen- 
dent of  sentiment.  She  is  capable  of  feeling,  yes? 
Doubtless,  that  is  a  special  pleasure,  yes,  a  special 


More  Travel  Notes  39 

one.  By  adroitly  goading  him,  one  could  make 
him  confess  his  tastes  of  a  fondler,  of  a  senile  love 
of  touching,  but  I  know  not  why,  I  am  afraid  lest 
his  pathology  take  up  Madame  Sixtine  as  a  subject 
of  demonstration. 

We  return  to  the  chateau.  Everybody  has  sur- 
rendered to  the  rare  pleasure  of  retiring  early. 
Only  Fortier  awaits  us,  to  conduct  me  to  my  room. 
It  seems  that  a  friend  of  the  countess  is  enthusiastic 
about  the  Revue  speculative  and  is  going  to  espouse 
it  under  a  dotal  system,  making  it  an  allowance 
of  fifty  thousand  francs,  which  it  lacks.  This  For- 
tier has  a  mania  for  offering  incomprehensible  meta- 
phors. 

"Some  one  is  going  to  put  fifty  thousand  francs 
into  the  Revue!" 

"Precisely." 

"And  you  will  become?" 

"Editor  in  chief  instead  of  director." 

"And  the  director?" 

"A  pseudonym."  I  know  Fortier;  he  will  not 
take  offense. 

"Now,  confess  that  it  is  the  countess."  He  smiles 
and  immediately  gallops  across  the  faded  fields  of  the 
dithyramb : 

"She  is  charming,  generous,  devoted  to  art,  and 
without  personal  ambition." 

"Except  to  be  loved?" 

"I  charge  myself  with  that." 

This  unconstraint  interests  my  natural  curiosity, 
and  with  little  contradictions  powdered  with  some 


LJ.O  Very  Woman 

skepticism,  I  excite  him  to  the  point  where  he  tells 
me  everything.  He  was  presented  by  Malaval,  who 
remarked  that  his  elegance  of  a  clipped  dog  would 
turn  the  head  of  the  countess.  It  was  an  embar- 
rassing introduction,  but  Fortier  showed  wit — so  he 
claims.  There  followed  allurements,  sly  winks,  the 
habit  of  quarreling  with  each  other,  an  absence, 
several  letters  wherein  a  light  tenderness  fluttered. 
She  was  alone  when  he  returned.  Without  speech, 
their  arms  outstretched — there  they  were,  trembling 
and  lovers.  Fortier  is  incapable  of  inventing  and, 
perhaps,  of  lying.  He  even  has  the  air  of  finding 
this  natural  and  fatal.  It  had  to  happen. 

"Is  it  not  so?" 

"Doubtless." 

I  take  leave  of  him.  Before  departing,  he  asks 
me  to  furnish  some  pages  for  the  first  number  of 
la  Speculative,  new  series.  This  line  finished,  I  go 
to  sleep,  but  why  is  this  room  called  the  portrait 
chamber  ? 

September  13,  morning. — I  have  dreamed  of  this 
portrait  and  I  seek  it  in  every  corner,  in  every  sec- 
tion of  the  walls.  The  room  is  quite  remarkably 
bare:  a  uniform  gray  paper;  above  the  Empire  fire- 
place, a  looking  glass  which  reaches  to  the  ceiling; 
the  bed  occupies  one  of  the  sides  of  the  floor;  to 
the  right  of  the  door,  a  bookcase  contains  some 
old  books;  to  the  left  is  a  chest  of  drawers  topped 
with  a  new  mirror;  opposite  are  two  windows;  be- 
tween the  two  windows,  a  dressing  table  and  another 
glass.  Nothing  else. 


More  Travel  Notes  41 

September  14,  evening. — We  took  an  excursion 

to  Roches-Noires.     Monsieur  B .,  who  was  our 

guide,  killed  a  snake  with  a  few  blows  of  a  little 
stick.  Then,  Madame  Magne  took  the  reptile  and 
in  an  instant  made  a  bracelet  of  the  still  moving 
creature.  The  countess  uttered  a  cry,  the  viper  had 
to  be  thrown  into  a  hole,  and  I  reflected  upon  the 
biblical  and  singular  sympathy  between  women 
and  serpents,  for  the  countess  cried  without  sin- 
cerity and  Madame  de  B .  pitied  the  poor  crea- 
ture of  the  good  Lord. 

September  14,  morning. — I  have  seen  the  por- 
trait. The  pale  and  green  moon  soared  into  my 
room.  I  had  just  awakened,  and  obscure  and 
ophidian  visions  still  haunted  me.  With  feverish 
eyes  I  distrustfully  gazed  around  me,  while  logical 
and  absurd  reasonings  multiplied  in  my  head,  their 
fugacity  leaving  me  with  a  doubt  as  to  the  precise 
place  of  my  actual  existence.  Was  I  in  the  midst 
of  the  brambles  and  precipices  of  Roches-Noire  ? 
No.  Was  I  in  my  room,  and  in  my  bed,  far  from 
the  vipers  and  grimacing  stones?  Perhaps.  See! 
above  the  mantlepiece  the  mirror  slowly  changes 
its  tint:  its  lunar  green,  its  green  of  transparent 
waters  underneath  beeches,  brightens  and  grows 
golden.  One  would  say  that  in  the  center  of  the 
glimmering,  as  on  the  moon's  very  face,  shadows 
with  human  features  project,  while  above  the  vague 
figure  there  winds  a  luminous  undulation  like 
loosened  and  floating  blond  hair.  Without  being 
able  to  analyze  the  rest  of  the  sudden  transformation, 


42  Very  Woman 

I  see  it,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  completed. 
Clear  and  animate,  the  portrait  gazes  on  me;  it  is, 
feature  for  feature,  that  of  the  woman  with  the 
reptile.  For  several  moments,  long  and  unforget- 
table moments,  the  vision  grew  resplendent,  then  it 
vanished,  as  though  by  a  breath. 

September  15,  morning. — I  awoke  at  the  same 
hour,  but  the  mirror  remained  green  and  I  did  not 
see  the  portrait  again.  I  think  of  nothing  but  this. 
All  day  yesterday,  while  Madame  Sixtine  Magne 
was  with  us,  I  looked  at  her;  when  she  was  no 
longer  there,  I  evoked  her. 

September  15,  evening. — The  countess  quickly 
questioned  me,  while  we  were  on  the  bank  of  the 
Orne :  "By  the  way,  did  you  see  the  portrait  ?  No, 
for  you  would  have  said  so.  Besides,  to  see  it  one 
must  now,  it  seems,  be  endowed  with  a  certain  mys- 
tery. It  is  a  trick  sometimes  played  upon  easily 
troubled  imaginations.  There  is  a  history.  Mon- 
sieur de  B .  tells  it  very  well.  Make  him  dis- 
cuss this  chapter  after  dinner."  I  could  not  find 
a  word  to  answer.  I  have  seen  the  portrait,  but 
how  proceed  to  boast  of  that  privilege?  The  an- 
gling for  crawfish  continues ;  I  am  asked  to  take  part 
in  it.  In  a  frame  of  leaves,  under  the  silvered 
alders,  the  young  woman,  who  henceforth  has  rights 
to  interest  me,  seems  passionately  absorbed  in  a 
book  whose  pages  she  cuts  with  her  finger.  Mon- 
sieur de  B .  could  not  remain  for  dinner  and  no 

one  has  spoken  again  of  the  portrait  chamber.  So 
much  the  better.  . 


More  Travel  Notes  43 

(End  of  the  Travel  Notes).— There,  in  fact, 
ended  the  scribbled  pages,  Hubert  having  betaken 
himself  to  dream  of  his  impressions  instead  of 
transcribing  them.  He  did  not  wish  to  write  them 
down  too  late,  without  some  necessary  preliminary 
moments,  so  as  not  to  take  the  risk  of  confounding 
the  chronology  of  the  little  things  whose  logical 
order  is  of  prime  importance.  The  remainder  of 
the  notebook  was  white.  Yet  when  he  perused  them 
later,  he  perceived  a  sheet  of  loose  paper  where 
could  be  traced  some  intentions  of  poetry.  This 
more  narrowly  fixed  his  thoughts  upon  Sixtine:  it 
was  truly  with  her  that  he  was  concerned  in  his 
prose,  in  his  verses,  in  his  life. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DREAM   FIGURE 

"O  Createur  de  1'universel  monde, 
Ma  pauvre  ame  est  troublee  grandement !" 
Heures  &  I'usaige  de  Paris,  1488. 

SIXTINE  was  far  from  him,  and  yet  he  believed 
that  he  saw  her  nearby. 

All  afternoon  he  preserved  the  illusion  of  walk- 
ing in  her  company.  She  suddenly  appeared  in  a 
dress  of  changing  colors:  the  cloth,  a  light  and 
pale  green  silk,  had  golden  clasps.  Her  shoes  made 
no  sound;  her  smile,  instead  of  speech,  and  diverse 
inflexions  of  her  muscles,  expressed  her  thoughts; 
nevertheless,  but  only  once,  he  positively  heard  the 
sound  of  her  voice.  "So  you  would  like  me  to  tell 
you  the  history  of  the  portrait  chamber?"  Pre- 
occupied in  establishing  the  fundamental  sound  of 
the  recovered  sequence  which  for  an  instant  tyran- 
nized him,  Entragues  listened  to  the  question  with- 
out immediately  perceiving  its  sense.  He  was  going 
to  reply  and  agree,  but  Sixtine,  under  the  parasol 
which  she  had  opened,  was  reading  and  he  dared 
not  disturb  her.  The  parasol,  too,  by  its  oddness, 
caused  his  mind  to  wander.  It  was  of  such  limpid 
and  transparent  yellow  that  through  it  he  beheld, 
44 


Dream  Figure  45 

barely  shaded  by  a  luminous  shadow,  the  shoulders 
of  Sixtine  and  her  head  bent  upon  the  book. 

They  walked  along  the  quay,  from  the  rue  du  Bac, 
where  he  had  begun  to  feel  her  presence,  to  the  Saint- 
Michel  Square.  The  charming,  shining  Seine  was 
iridescent  with  the  play  of  oblique  rays  striking 
against  its  current;  sparkling  foam  fell  on  the 
prows;  the  fringe  of  the  bank  was  dotted  with 
sails  on  which  a  keen  wind  played ;  the  canvas 
crackled  like  flames;  the  lines  of  anchored  boats 
here  and  there  rumbled  under  the  shock;  the  multi- 
colored parapets  retreated. 

Entragues  bought  no  lexicon;  he  looked  at  the 
serried  backs  of  books,  without  even  reading  the 
black  or  golden  titles. 

In  a  deserted  spot,  along  the  wooden  balustrade, 
and  as  the  first  gas  light  flickered  in  a  cafe,  he  was 
accosted  by  a  young  man  who  passed  as  a  poet, 
perhaps  because  of  the  rare  beauty  of  his  face. 

"How  singular!  You  are  alone,  yet  one  would 
swear  that  an  invisible  person  accompanied  you." 

"I  am  now  alone,  my  dear  Sanglade." 

Sixtine,  in  fact,  had  just  disappeared  from  En- 
trague's  sight  and  Sanglade  had  the  impression  of 
having  awkwardly  interrupted  a  tete-a-tcte,  an  im- 
pression that  was  quite  metaphorical,  for  with  an  air 
of  bantering  timidity,  he  added: 

"You  are  seeking  rhymes.  I  will  give  you  some, 
I  have  them  all  at  my  command.  Without  this 
gift,  I  would  not  be  a  poet." 

"Yes,  without  this  you  would  be  a  poet." 


46  Very  Woman 

"In  prose,  perhaps,"  answered  Sanglade,  "but  in 
verse?" 

Entragues  purposely  let  him  run  on,  having  no 
mind  for  esthetic  tournaments.  They  went  up  the 
boulevard.  At  the  Luxembourg,  Sanglade,  tired  of 
discoursing  in  monologue,  took  advantage  of  a  pass- 
ing friend  and  returned.  Entragues  made  for  a 
quiet  cafe,  protected  with  carpets,  where  his  horror 
of  sound  could  readily  be  satisfied. 

Since  his  return,  save  for  a  brief  interview  on  the 
first  morning,  he  had  been  able  to  abstract  Sixtine 
from  his  immediate  thoughts.  It  was  with  a  perfect 
coldness  that  he  had  recopied  into  good  French  his 
brief  travel  notes  where,  towards  the  end,  the  name 
of  this  woman,  hardly  known,  recurred  with  each 
verse,  like  an  amen.  But,  and  here  he  recognized 
the  occult  power  of  words,  the  material  transcrip- 
tion of  those  syllables  had  acted  violently  on  his 
imagination.  He  had  lived  whole  hours  with  her, 
and  now  that  the  mystic  power  of  the  vision  was 
spent,  he  still  thought  of  the  absent  one. 

"She  must  have  gone  to  Bagnoles  for  one  of 
those  imaginary  illnesses  which  women  never  think 
of  treating  save  in  their  periods  of  boredom. 
Restless  or  bored:  she  had  these  two  states  in  al- 
most equal  doses.  Then  if  her  head  is  troubled 
with  love,  she  will  not  experience  it  until  the  time 
when  one  questions  oneself :  uncertain  questions, 
uncertain  answers !  And  boredom  ?  To  explain  it, 
you  must  admit  that  the  advance  or  recoil  of  this 
dawning  caprice  has  nothing  to  do  with  her  will 


Dream  Figure  47 

and  that  she  may  be  unconscious  of  her  own  senti- 
ment. That  is  it :  she  loves,  therefore  the  uneasiness ; 
but  she  does  not  know  it,  therefore  the  ennui.  It  is 
necessary  to  note  this.  Could  she  have  returned?" 

Hubert  believed  himself  merely  touched  by  a  sim- 
ple analytical  fever.  Often,  for  the  sole  pleasure 
of  taking  stock  with  himself,  he  had  followed,  in 
their  psychic  evolutions,  many  interesting  subjects; 
of  women,  particularly,  but  deceived  by  a  considera- 
tion of  the  inscrutable  motive,  they  had  divined 
another  one  and  had  begun  to  simper  at  the  investi- 
gator. Thus  it  used  to  end,  whether  Entragues 
digressed,  or  whether  a  series  led  him  into  a  secret 
laboratory  experiment. 

Even  in  this  last  case,  it  was  short,  for  he  had 
hardly  ever  tried  his  tests  except  upon  vile  souls 
often  belonging  to  prostituted  organisms. 

Sixtine  was  of  the  caste  numbered  one  or  two, 
coming  from  an  aristocratic  convent  and  from  an 
idle  leisurely  family. 

Nothing  certain  at  the  first  approach,  because  of 
the  modern  confusion  and  personal  reclassification, 
but  fallen  rather  than  parvenu,  belonging  at  least 
to  those  who  cultivate  a  relative  leisure  in  an 
avowed  independence.  As  for  certain  other  prob- 
lems which  puzzled  him,  he  would  amuse  himself  in 
resolving  them  gradually,  at  her  home,  with  the 
aid  of  subtle  questions,  for  he  meant  to  accept  her 
invitation  and  would  go  to  see  her. 

Such  a  minute  revery  denoted  a  certain  possession. 
Entragues  did  not  yet  suspect,  or  perhaps  did  not 


48  Very  Woman 

wish  to  condescend  to  admit  to  himself  that  the 
agreeable  and  feminine  form  of  mystery  acted  on 
his  imagination  more  than  on  his  curiosity. 

Sixtine  was  graceful  and  her  contours  corre- 
sponded with  the  harmony  requisite  to  evoke  the 
word  of  beauty.  Blond  her  hair,  and  a  golden 
green,  her  eyes;  violent  the  mouth  and  exquisitely 
white,  her  teeth !  Ah !  the  violent  mouth  broke  the 
harmony,  a  cold  esthetician  would  have  said,  but, 
and  this  was  the  proof  that  Hubert  already  was  a 
prey  to  desire,  he  loved  its  destructive  violence, 
seeing  it  in  but  a  more  assured  promise  of  pleasure. 
Just  then  Entragues  gave  such  a  sharp  start  that 
the  gamblers  close  to  him  held  the  dice-box  sus- 
about  to  make.  The  dice  rattled  in  the  copper  box 
pended  in  air,  and  suppressed  the  bets  they  were 
and  Entragues  reflected  on  his  nerves. 

"It  was  because  of  the  ambiguity,  that  was  the 
cause,  my  soul !  The  ambiguity  threw  the  poison." 

"Oh !  was  he  going  to  take  as  a  serious  confession 
idle  words  playfully  uttered  on  the  wings  of  a 
causerie.  This  time,  was  it  not  really  the  old  mal- 
ady of  chimerical  fancies?  He  smiled  at  himself, 
and  almost  grew  out  of  patience.  Ah!  the  thing 
was  not  to  accuse  her  because  of  a  confession,  not 
to  reveal  himself  as  devoid  of  criticism  as  a  public 
accuser,  but  not  to  deny  her  criminal  potentiality. 
What  a  doll  full  of  bran  instead  of  blood,  seamed 
with  threads  instead  of  nerves,  is  a  woman  incap- 
able of  crime!  As  well  say  that  she  is  incapable 


Dream  Figure  49 

of  passion!  Our  cowardly  civilization,  itself,  ab- 
solves the  bloody  consequences  of  love,  sparing 
such  women  the  futile  expiation  of  an  inevitable 
act.  The  equivocation  he  had  read  on  Sixtine's 
face  was  the  mark  of  election,  the  sign  of  possible 
passion,  the  proof  that  she  was  a  woman." 

This  deduction  reassured  Entragues.  Hence- 
forth, instead  of  trembling  before  the  word  crime, 
he  would  have  to  qualify  it.  A  preliminary  dis- 
tinction would  have  spared  him  the  start  which  had 
frightened  the  dice  players.  Now  he  willingly  ac- 
cepted a  Sixtine  who  was  a  neighbor  to  crime,  and 
even  a  criminal  Sixtine.  In  the  latter  case  it  meant, 
for  example,  that  she  loved,  that  she  was  deceived, 
that  she  had  poisoned  the  deceiver.  Ah!  there  are 
luckless  poisoned  ones  whose  fate  may  trouble  sen- 
sibilities after  the  deed.  But  if,  instead  of  de- 
fending herself,  Sixtine  had  died,  what  sort  of  per- 
son would  the  assassin  have  been? 

This  crime,  at  first  so  disturbing,  insensibly 
gained  some  considerations  of  attraction.  An  old 
desire,  like  an  old  viper,  stirred  in  his  head.  Ah! 
to  kiss  hands  that  had  used  poison!  To  caress  the 
flesh  of  a  murderes,s!  Through  contempt  of  all 
morality,  to  give  pleasure  to  the  woman  who  had 
provoked,  for  her  peace,  frightful  agonies!  .  .  . 
And  perhaps  there  truly  was  nothing  in  it  at  all! 
Oh!  she  had,  with  a  single  word,  confessed  too 
thoroughly  not  to  go,  some  day,  to  the  end  of  the 
avowal :  he  would  know  how  to  win  her  confidence. 


5o  Very  Woman 

For  the  time  being,  as  it  was  impossible  to  pene- 
trate further,  lacking  sufficient  enlightenment,  En- 
tragues  abandoned  all  analysis  and  dined. 

Afterwards,  he  recopied  the  sequence  which,  in 
his  revery,  had  been  dimly  refashioned.  The  de- 
sired words  took  their  assigned  place,  the  rhythm 
polished  the  breaks  that  appeared  too  rude,  the  im- 
perfections were  effaced. 

It  went  thus : 

DREAM  FIGURE 

Sequence 

La  tres  chere  aux  yeux  clairs  apparait  sous  la  lune, 
Sous  la  lune  ephemera  et  mere  des  beaux  reves. 
La  lumiere  bleuie  par  les  brumes  cendrait 
D'une  poussiere  aerienne 

Son  front  fleuri  d'etoiles,  et  sa  legere  chevelure 
Flottait  dans  1'air  derriere  ses  pas  legers : 
La  chimere  dormait  au  fond  de  ses  prunelles. 
Sur  la  chair  nue  et  frele  de  son  cou, 
Les  stellaires  sourires  d'un  rosaire  de  perles 
Etageaient  les  reflets  de  leurs  pale  eclairs.     Ses  poignets 
Avaient  des  bracelets  tout  pareils;  et  sa  tete, 
La  couronne  incrustee  des  sept  pierres  mystiques 
Dont  les  flammes  transpercent  le  coeur  comme  des  glaives 
Sous  la  lune  ephemere  et  mere  des  beaux  reves. 

He  ,signed  his  name  and  the  date,  adding  farther 
down,  as  an  envoy  "To  Madame  Sixtine  Magne." 
To  spare  himself  reflections  of  this  sort:  "Shall 
I  send  it  to  her,  shall  I  not  send  it  to  her?"  he  ad- 
dressed an  envelope,  affixed  a  stamp,  and  immedi- 
ately carried  it  to  the  mailbox. 

Then,  to  divert  himself  by  gaining  an  hour  of 
rest,  he  repeated  the  story  with  which  Monsieur  de 
B .  had  amused  them,  one  evening,  at  the  home 


Dream  Figure  51 

of  the  countess — a  quite  unadorned  story,  as  be- 
comes such  a  trifle — just  such  a  thing  as  could  be 
written  by  those  whose  occasional  simplicity  is  not 
due  to  a  poverty  of  language  or  to  an  imaginative 
sterility. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MARCELLE  AND   MARCELINE 

A  story  in  the  style  of  "Cinderella,"  but  more  modern. 

"Ni  vers,  ni  prose;  points  de  grands  mots, 
point  de  brillans,  point  de  rimes :  un  ton  naif 
m'accomode  mieux ;  en  un  mot,  un  recits  sans 
faqon  et  comme  on  parle." 

Madame  d'Aulnoy,  I'Adroite  Princesse. 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  nobleman  who 
took  to  himself  a  second  wife  who  had  as 
wicked  a  heart  as  you  could  imagine.  They  had  a 
daughter  who  resembled  her  mother,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  the  two  were  tyrants  of  the  house,  for 
this  nobleman  loved  them  and  humored  all  their 
whims.  Especially  did  the  daughter  take  advantage 
of  it  to  inflict  a  thousand  miseries  upon  her  step- 
sister, whose  birthright  seemed  to  her  a  theft  of  her 
rights  as  a  spoiled  child.  One  was  called  Marcelle 
and  the  other,  Marceline.  The  wicked  Marcelle 
hated  her  sister,  but  the  good  Marceline  returned 
good  for  evil.  And  as  her  father,  through  very 
goodness  of  soul,  and  to  have  peace  in  the  house, 
always  took  the  part  of  Marcelle,  Marceline  learned 
to  suffer. 

Marcelle  was  as  pretty  as  a  bouquet  of  roses. 
Taught  to  smile  by  the  smiles  she  had  received  at 
52 


Marcelle  and  Marceline  53 

the  cradle  and  while  she  played,  she  knew  how  to  be 
radiant,  and  every  one  considered  her  a  very  ami- 
able person.  Tall  and  shapely,  she  had  a  white  and 
delicate  skin,  red  lips  and  long  blond  hair. 

Marceline  was  ugly,  small,  with  dark  hair  and 
complexion;  in  truth, she  had  very  lively  eyes,  but 
they  had  a  somber  color  and  lacked  any  tender  ex- 
pression. She  was  mistaken  for  her  sister's 
governess,  and  sometimes  for  her  maid,  for  though 
no  one  was  cruel  enough  to  refuse  her  whatever 
dresses  she  desired,  she  affected  a  taste  for  simple 
clothes. 

Marcelle  had  already*  refused  more  than  one 
eligible  suitor,  when  a  young  lord  named  Lelian 
moved  her  heart  by  his  good  manners,  his  title,  that 
of  a  marquis,  and  his  fortune. 

The  marriage  day  was  fixed,  Lelian  courted  in  a 
most  gallant  fashion,  and  the  only  thing  left  was  the 
arranging  of  the  festivities  that  would  signalize 
such  a  great  way. 

Marceline  took  great  pains  not  to  show  any  spite 
because  the  younger  daughter  was  getting  married 
first.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  as  amiable  as  ever. 
With  an  unwonted  good  grace  she  welcomed  the 
young  marquis  destined  for  her  sister ;  this  every- 
body appreciated  and  people  began  to  find  her  less 
ugly  and  less  displeasing.  Marcelle,  amid  her  joy, 
always  kept  the  haughty  air  belonging  to  a  well- 
born girl.  Lelian  felt  more  admiration  than  love 
for  her  and  he  was  not  displeased  to  talk  a  little 
with  Marceline.  The  "little  one,"  as  she  was  con- 


54  Very  Woman 

temptuously  called,  soon  seemed  to  him  more  intel- 
ligent and  pleasant  than  her  sister.  She  spoke  of 
all  things  with  spirit,  her  good  humor  took  no  offense 
at  any  teasing,  and  when,  by  chance,  she  was  alone 
with  Lelian,  a  strange  flame  of  an  almost  mysteri- 
ous charm,  shone  in  her  somber  eyes.  By  gazing 
at  them  long,  Lelian  discovered  that  her  dark  brown 
eyes  had  a  perfectly  nuanced  gamut  of  expression : 
they  were  eloquent.  From  that  time,  and  during 
the  moments  he  was  not  paying  court  to  Marcelle, 
he  strove  to  spell  out  the  words  that  lay  in  Mar- 
celine's  eyes. 

He  thought  of  them  as  much  as  any  man,  on  the 
eve  of  marriage,  can  think  of  eyes  which  do  not  be- 
long to  the  woman  he  is  about  to  wed,  when  Mar- 
celine,  suddenly  unwell,  took  to  her  room  for  three 
days.  This  was  decisive :  the  dark  eyes  recovered 
their  language  so  clearly  that  there  was  no  mis- 
taking them. 

It  was  the  very  morning  of  the  marriage  day. 
Quite  recovered,  but  still  a  trifle  pale,  Marceline 
strolled  through  the  garden,  touching  the  flowers 
without  gathering  a  single  one.  Lelian,  on  his 
side,  was  walking  about  to  conceal  his  impatience. 
They  met. 

What  passed  between  them  while  they  strolled, 
through  the  walks,  silently  and  slowly?  What  did 
they  say  in  the  garden  walks?  Lelian,  without  as- 
tonishment, heard  these  words  which  Marceline, 
as  she  suddenly  left  him,  threw  like  an  arrow : 


Marcelle  and  Marceline  55 

"And  take  care  not  to  mistake  the  door  this  eve- 
ning, for  my  sister  and  I  have  adjoining  rooms!" 

After  the  return  from  church,  there  was  a  great 
repast  that  continued  far  into  the  evening;  then 
came  dances  and  games  in  the  illuminated  rooms; 
then  a  magnificent  supper  was  served,  followed  by 
more  dances  and  games.  The  peasants,  under  a 
specially  erected  tent,  took  part  in  the  rejoicings; 
they  sang  songs,  discharged  guns,  danced,  kissed 
one  another,  and  drank  to  the  bride's  health. 

While  the  ball  was  at  its  height,  Marcelle  disap- 
peared without  anyone  taking  notice,  except  the  men 
among  themselves  and  the  women  behind  their  fans ; 
several  young  girls  blushed ;  others  thoughtfully  fol- 
lowed the  retreating  train  of  white  silk  with  their 
eyes.  The  bride's  dress,  her  attitude,  the  least  little 
word  she  had  spoken  in  a  quite  distracted  voice 
since  the  ceremony,  her  tears,  her  smiles,  her  kisses 
— all  were  passed  in  review.  The  old  women,  fear- 
ing ridicule,  dissimulated  the  emotion  brought  up 
by  distant  memories ;  the  young  women  sought  the 
glances  of  their  husbands  in  the  throng. 

Lelian  mounted  the  stairs  with  a  firm  and  rapid 
step.  He  saw  the  two  adjacent  doors.  One  was 
shut;  the  other  was  ajar.  This  one  he  pushed  and 
entered.  Without  a  sound,  and  with  diabolic  skill, 
Marceline  turned  the  key  and  bolted  the  door. 

Before  the  house  was  astir,  Lelian  led  Marcelle 
away,  as  had  been  arranged.  A  coach,  spanned  and 
ready,  awaited  them. 


56  Very  Woman 

After  the  honeymoon  trip,  which  was  brief,  be- 
cause of  the  quite  natural  impatience  of  the  newly 
married  couple  to  settle  in  their  home,  they  dwelt  in 
Lelian's  chateau. 

As  the  two  domains  touched  each  other,  so  to 
speak,  Marcelle  was  able  to  find  some  happiness 
near  her  parents  and  her  sister  whom  she  had  ceased 
to  hate.  Unhappiness  softens  certain  pride ful  souls 
and  Marcelle,  who  had  promised  herself  many  num- 
berless joys,  found  herself,  as  happens,  the  most  un- 
fortunate woman  in  the  world. 

Taught  by  experience,  Marceline  refused  to  marry. 
When  any  one  speaks  to  her  of  the  miserable  con- 
dition of  an  old  maid,  she  smiles  and  asks : 

"Come,  are  you  so  sure  that  I  am  an  old  maid?" 

And  it  must  be  agreed  that  a  sort  of  beauty 
flowered  in  the  dark  Marceline  and  that  the  white 
Marcelle  grew  almost  ugly. 

I  believe  that  Marceline  is  a  fairy,  but  this  is  not 
quite  certain. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    TRANSPARENT    CURTAIN    OF    TIME 

"In  laying  down  his  Cogito  ergo  sum  as  the 
only  certainty,  and  in  considering  the  world's 
existence  as  problematical,  Descartes  found 
the  essential  departing  point  of  all  philos- 
ophy." 

Schopenhauer:  The  World  as  Idea. 

ENTRAGUE  rose  early  and  penholder  in  hand, 
turning  over  his  papers  while  he  drank  tea  and 
smoked  cigarettes,  he  began  the  day. 

Monsieur  Dubois,  through  an  administrative 
memorandum,  had  the  goodness  to  inform  him  about 
his  affairs.  There  had  been  postal  supplications 
and  telegraphic  pardons.  Madame  du  Boys  was 
returning.  The  envelope  contained  the  letter  and 
the  copy  of  the  dispatch.  Entragues  appreciated 
this  attention  which  would  permit  him  to  follow, 
without  fatigue,  the  developments  of  the  oratorio. 

The  letter,  dated  from  Geneva,  was  a  reply.  The 
secretary,  among  indistinct  phrases,  had  doubtless  let 
fall  the  seed  of  hope,  for  Madame  du  Boys  seemed 
to  accept  at  the  same  time  that  she  implored. 
Though  standing  on  her  dignity,  she  was  not  dis- 
pleased with  this  rope  flung  in  the  midst  of  her 
muddled  situation.  She  joyfully  clutched  it,  with 

57 


58  Very  Woman 

the  naive  and  vainglorious  pleasure  of  being  able  to 
say:  "It  is  he  who  is  taking  the  first  step!  How 
anxious  he  is  to  have  me!  Ah!  the  poor  man,  I 
do  not  want  to  make  him  suffer  any  more."  This 
could  be  read  all  around  the  pages,  on  all  the  margins, 
even  on  the  envelope,  which  had  been  addressed 
with  a  poised  hand.  Too,  there  flowered  a  bore- 
dom from  this  international  paper:  "I  enjoy  myself 
more  even  in  Paris,  by  the  side  of  a  stupid  and 
solemn  husband,  than  on  the  banks  of  Lake  Geneva, 
where  I  am  alone  with  my  maid  from  nine  in  the 
morning  till  six  at  night — without  counting  the  days 
when  business  delays  Monsieur  le  comte — and  where, 
to  fall  asleep,  I  drink,  in  the  Revue  des  Treize  Can- 
tons, lympathic  emanations  on  the  course  of  life  and 
the  meaning  of  death!" 

"P.  S.  Say  that  I  am  passing  a  season  in  Switz- 
erland for  my  health." 

She  arrives,  lets  fall  her  little  bundles,  opens  her 
arms,  and  Monsieur  Dubois,  very  agitated,  falls  into 
them. 

"Ah!  my  poor  friend,  so  I  find  you  again! 
What  trials!" 

She  has  pardoned. 

Monsieur  Dubois  dries  his  eyes,  not  knowing 
what  to  say;  his  flown  discourse  leaves  him  speech- 
less. 

Bending  towards  one  of  the  little  parcels  which 
she  lifts,  Madame  du  Boys,  serpentine  and  coy, 
murmurs : 


The  Transparent  Curtain  of  Time       59 

"I  have  thought  of  you,  dear  one,  I  bring  you  a 
box  of  cigars." 

Entragues  was  greatly  amused  by  this  unforseen 
denouement.  He  was  just  finishing  the  draught 
of  a  sketch  when  the  bell  rang;  it  was  a  letter  with 
a  handwriting  unknown  to  him.  The  wording  was 
brief : 

"Monsieur  d'Entragues  is  expected  this  evening 
to  give  a  commentary  on  his  Dream.  Only  audi- 
tors :  the  four  walls  and  Sixtine  Magne." 

Two  joyful  tidings  already,  and  it  was  not  yet 
midday.  It  was  only  at  this  hour  that  his  scanty 
correspondence  was  brought  him,  for  the  precious 
mornings  could  not  be  troubled  by  the  intrusion  of 
the  external  problematical  world.  Even  amid  a 
quite  feverish  contentment,  he  did  not  regret  the 
instructions  he  had  given  once  for  all;  Sixtine's 
letter  came  at  a  moment  when  he  could  think  at 
leisure  and  without  remorse.  His  pleasure  was 
manifested  by  a  vivacity  of  movement  altogether 
juvenile;  a  semblance  of  adolescence  surged  from 
his  precocious  maturity.  Though  he  generally  was 
incapable  of  giving  a  clear  account  of  his  impres- 
sions, he  felt  himself  rejuvenated,  and  this  aston- 
ished him.  He  walked  about  with  lively  quick 
movements. 

Rue  Notre-Dame-des-Champs  was  almost  gay. 

A  reddish  brown  made  the  sun-bathed  Luxem- 
bourg, through  which  he  strolled,  resplendent.  It 
was  full  of  pretty  children  and  flashing  ribbons. 


60  Very  Woman 

Towards  the  Odeon  he  ceased  to  be  aware  of  the 
things  around  him — a  beaming  cloud  enveloped  him. 
In  the  afternoon,  having  breakfasted,  though  he  could 
not  have  stated  how  or  where,  he  found  himself  on 
the  Pont-Neuf,  and  collected  his  thoughts.  Pres- 
ence of  mind  returned  to  him  and,  dissipating  with 
a  last  breath  his  cloud,  he  began  consciously  to  revel 
in  his  happiness.  The  moment  was  brief :  leaning 
on  his  elbows,  looking  at  the  unchanging  water,  he 
felt  the  premonitory  thrill  he  so  well  knew;  the 
frozen  aura  of  spleen  whistled  in  his  ears  and, 
bounding  the  horizon  like  a  wall,  the  black  Idea 
reared  itself  before  him.  An  infinite  distress  over- 
whelmed him  and,  far  from  wishing  the  burden  re- 
moved, he  bent  his  shoulders,  letting  himself  be 
crushed  even  to  suicide.  He  closed  his  eyes  with 
suffering,  he  trembled  with  cold,  and  a  flicker  of 
reason  deep  within  him  warned  him  of  the  absurdity 
of  such  a  sudden  and  causeless  grief.  Yet  he  per- 
sisted, now  lying  under  the  avalanche  of  gloom,  im- 
mobile, experiencing  the  garrot  of  solitary  death, 
the  slow  excoriation  of  moral  agony.  This  lasted 
an  hour,  during  which  he  suffered  weeks  of  real 
and  profound  pains,  the  crudest  pains  ever  invented 
by  unjust  human  imagination,  hopeless  pains,  infer- 
nal pains.  He  ached  when  he  resumed  his  normal 
state  and  unsteadily  went  on  his  way. 

The  distraction  of  book  hunting  proved  a  great 
relief.  The  mummies,  ranged  in  dozens  in  their 
tombs,  awaited  a  momentary  resurrection.  He  res- 
cued several,  les  Promenades  by  Standhal,  which  he 


The  Transparent  Curtain  of  Time       61 

did  not  possess,  an  old  breviary  embellished  with 
armorial  bearings,  and  a  Venetian  lexicon.  He  re- 
gretted having  purchased  the  Stendhal.  It  was  a 
subject  of  sadness  and  in  the  unhealthy  state  in 
which  his  crisis  had  left  him,  the  mere  material 
contact  of  these  artless  but  bitter  little  notes  might 
be  dangerous.  Bitter !  For  him  alone,  perhaps,  for 
he  found  such  desolation  in  it:  "This  Rome  of  the 
Popes,  this  womb  of  the  ideal,  this  Ninevah  of  the 
purple,  this  Babylon  of  the  cross,  this  Sodom  of 
mysticism,  this  ark  of  sadistic  dreams,  this  incunab- 
ulum  of  sacred  follies,  this  generator  of  the  new 
passion,  this  Rome,  I  never  again  shall  see!"  A 
tiny  kingdom  had  openly  stolen  its  traditional  capital 
and  the  modern  baseness  had  ratified  the  theft. 

His  sadness  turned  to  anger.  Entragues  smiled 
at  this  quixotism,  but  the  violence  of  even  a  fugitive 
indignation  ended  by  making  him  sound  again,  and, 
recovering  full  consciousness,  he  breathed. 

In  the  street,  Entragues  did  not  sympathize  with 
the  rumbling  consciousness  dispersed  among  \he 
human  fluid  emanating  from  the  'throngs.  The 
passersby  seemed  phantoms  to  him,  he  was  not 
aware  of  them,  considering  them  as  inconsistent  as 
the  vignettes  of  an  illustrated  book.  The  most 
tragic  public  event  only  elicited  from  him  an  ac- 
quiescence or  repulsion  of  the  artist:  to  shrug  the 
shoulders  and  cry:  Bravo,  Chance!  A  very  scorn- 
ful observer  and  thoroughly  persuaded  in  advance 
that  nothing  new  can  be  produced  by  the  encounters 
of  individuals  with  one  another  or  against  things, 


62  Very  Woman 

since  the  elaborating  brains  partake  eternally  of  a 
fundamental  identity  and  their  visible  differences 
are  but  the  right  and  reverse  sides  of  an  untearable 
material  embroidered  with  a  durable  and  everlast- 
ing embroidery;  conscious  of  the  uselessness  of 
leaving  his  house  to  enter  another  house  which  is 
just  the  same,  Entragues  loved  the  proximity  of 
books  that  demonstrated  to  him  the  probability  of 
his  philosophy.  He  never  tired  of  admiring  the 
courageous  perserverance  of  men  who  invariably  re- 
peated the  same  thing.  All  that  had  been  written 
since  the  Bible  could  be  resumed  in  three  words ;  fired 
in  a  fantastic  crucible,  the  totality  of  books  would 
give  this  for  a  chemical  residuum:  COGITO,  ERGO 
SUM.  Descartes  was  the  only  man  who  had  ever 
expressed  a  necessary  idea,  and  thirteen  letters  had 
sufficed  for  it.  He  would  have  wished  to  see  them 
engraved  on  the  front  of  monuments. 

Outside  of  these  three  words,  nothing  indubitably 
existed  except  art;  for  it  alone,  endowed  with  the 
critical  faculty,  has  the  power  of  evoking  life.  It 
alone,  without  remarking  the  warp  and  woof,  how- 
ever, can  variegate  the  embroidery  of  the  stuff,  be- 
cause it  embroiders  safe  from  contingencies.  The 
existence  of  Marie- Antoinette  is  problematical ;  that 
of  Antigone  is  certain.  The  queen  who  died  on 
the  scaffold  is  at  the  mercy  of  deductions  and  nega- 
tions; Antigone  is  as  eternal  as  the  family  love  she 
symbolizes,  and  the  falling  stars  will  not  hush  the 
piteous  and  charming  confession  of  her  feminine 
heart  murmuring  across  the  centuries :  "I  am  born  to 


The  Transparent  Curtain  of  Time       63 

love  and  not  to  hate."  The  symbol  is  as  imperish- 
able as  the  idea  whose  transcendental  form  it  is  and 
becomes  necessary  to  it  as  soon  as  it  clothes  the  idea. 
When  you  persecute  Galileo,  it  is  a  man  who  suffers ; 
when  you  separate  Romeo  from  Juliette,  it  is  the 
entire  species  that  feels  their  anguish. 

Having  placed  art  above  and  even  in  the  place 
of  life,  Entragues  still  doubted.  Was  art  not  an 
illusion  as  well?  If  the  external  world  consists 
of  phantoms  only,  could  he  create  aught  but  phan- 
toms, unless  he  confined  himself  to  the  eternal  re- 
production of  the  eternal  ego?  But  at  its  highest 
degree  of  personality,  individual  consciousness  con- 
tains all  forms,  and  just  as,  by  a  necessary  objec- 
tivity, it  projects  externally  the  silhouettes  on  the 
transparent  curtain  of  time,  which  is  life,  it  can 
project  them  outside  of  time,  which  is  art. 

The  ant  in  distress  swam  boldly  towards  the  last 
straw,  withstanding  the  cruel  waves ;  it  did  not 
founder  in  the  hollows  of  the  rivulet — which  are 
for  it  lar.ger  than  the  ocean — and  it  saw  safety 
when  the  motion  of  the  waves  raised  it  to  the  pin- 
nacle. 

His  meditations  were  suddenly  troubled,  like  the 
water  of  a  pool  into  which  a  swan  plunges.  The 
jovial,  merry  instinct  recovered  its  toy.  There 
was  now  no  means  of  arguing  upon  the  illusion  of 
suffering:  the  lashes  of  presentiment  cut  his  back 
so  keenly  and  severely  that  it  was  clear  the  hand 
could  not  be  wheedled  by  any  reasoning. 

The  child  was  amusing  itself   too  well.     "And 


64  Very  Woman 

yet!  and  yet!"  All  was  vain  and  it  was  true. 
Entragues,  upon  returning  to  his  quarters,  found 
this  mortal  note,  mortal  in  the  state  of  exaltation 
in  which  he  had  lived  since  the  morning,  a  damper 
that  truly  resembled  death. 

"Inpromptu  dinner  with  the  countess  who  has 
come  on  some  business.  Regrets.  Let  tomorrow 
take  the  place  of  to-day.  S.  M." 

As  he  sat  reading  these  lines,  his  head  in  his 
hands,  without  having  removed  his  hat,  gloves, 
overcoat  and  cane,  he  had  the  misfortune  to  wish 
to  seek  the  secret  causes ;  he  passed,  without  stirring, 
two  or  three  very  painful  hours.  His  reasoning 
went  thus:  in  writing  the  first  letter  to  me  yester- 
day, she  evidently  knew  how  matters  stood.  He 
then  asked  himself  why  she  was  playing  with  him. 
He  employed  the  whole  evening  in  resolving  this 
difficult  question.  Finally,  after  having  followed 
several  diverse  solutions,  he  concluded :  "Perhaps, 
as  she  said,  it  really  was  a  simple  accident."  As 
aching  as  a  victim  of  the  inquisition,  after  his  se- 
ance of  torture,  he  fell  asleep  cursing  hope,  that  tor- 
ture more  subtle  than  the  wooden  horse,  needles  and 
spiders,  a  sketch  but  lately  illuminated  by  Villiers 
de  1'Isle-Adam. 

He  fell  asleep,  living  again  the  pages  of  the  master 
in  a  terrifying  nightmare,  and  only  in  the  morning 
did  rest  come. 

Upon  arising,  he  was  another  person,  and  certi- 
tude, pure  and  clear  certitude  did  not  abandon  him 
an  instant  until  evening.  At  half  past  eight,  the 


The  Transparent  Curtain  of  Time       65 

hour  chosen  and  fixed  by  her,  he  would  see  her. 
Until  then  he  walked  with  closed  eyes,  almost  like 
a  blind  man,  all  the  powers  of  his  mind,  all  his 
faculties  of  idealisation,  together  with  his  scorn  and 
skepticism,  drowned  in  that  drop  of  water — Sixtine. 
He  did  not  even  have  enough  strength  for  aston- 
ishment :  a  rising  moon,  a  dawning  love  dominated 
his  horizon.  This  unique  contemplation,  by  gentle 
degrees,  isolated  him  in  a  trance. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  PROMENADE  OF  SIN 

"This  curl  of  hair  belongs  to  a  daughter  of 
Ra-Hor-Xuti,  who  has  in  her  every  essence 
of  divinity." 

Orbiney  Papyriis,  PI.  xi.  4. 

A  PRISONER  in  her  abbatial  seat,  she  had 
quite  the  air  of  a  fourteenth  century  person. 
JJressed  in  red,  her  feet  rested  on  a  black  cushion; 
her  fingers,  lit  with  garnets  and  opals,  perhaps  with 
cassidony,  and  with  agates,  played  with  the  white 
girdle  which  tied  a  robe  with  heavy  purple  undula- 
tions; her  head,  a  pale  flower,  leaned  against  the 
carved  wainscot;  the  shadow  of  the  ogive  framed 
the  blonde  aureole. 

Altogether  nonplussed  by  the  attitude  which 
seemed  to  demand  the  genuflexion  of  a  worshiper, 
instead  of  the  cordial  greeting  of  a  friend,  he  re- 
mained standing  near  the  door,  seeking  some  word 
to  begin.  For  a  few  seconds  Sixtine  enjoyed  the 
astonishment  she  had  anticipated,  then  skilfully  rose 
and,  with  a  trace  of  lingering  vanity,  offered  her 
hand.  He  took  it  coldly,  seeing  that  she  had  tried 
to  deceive  him  with  a  mise  en  scene. 

The  thread  broke  and  all  the  pearls  of  the  em- 
broidery fell  one  after  the  other;  it  was  the  work 
66 


The  Promenade  of  Sin  67 

of  this  evening  to  fill  the  silken  thread,  to  put  the 
scattered  jewels  back  into  their  design. 

Both  busied  themselves  with  good  will  over  the 
task  and  Sixtine,  who  felt  the  peril  of  having  trav- 
estied, even  with  a  worthy  attire,  the  primitive 
image  remaining  in  the  eyes  of  Entragues,  quickly 
became  again  the  simple  and  sincerely  strange 
woman  of  the  first  hour.  At  least  Hubert,  at  the 
sight  of  some  gestures,  at  the  sound  of  some  words, 
so  recreated  her ;  he  gradually  recovered  his  ease  and 
renewed  with  Sixtine  the  chat  commenced  in  the 
country  place. 

The  heavy  branches  of  the  firs  drooped  above 
their  heads;  a  stag  passed,  hounds  passed,  Diana, 
on  a  golden  crescent,  passed. 

Sixtine  threw  a  veil  of  green  silk  over  the  rose- 
colored  shade.  She  remarked : 

"Diana  provides  her  own  light.  The  hunt  will 
continue  by  moonlight.  Is  it  dreamlike  enough, 
thus  ?" 

"It  is  in  such  a  light  that  I  beheld  you  one  night, 
a  surprising  night  of  revery  or  vision:  E  par  chie 
sia  una  cosa  venuta  .  .  ." 

"Da  cielo  in  terro,"  continued  Sixtine.  "My 
mother  was  Venetian;  she  made  me  read  a  few 
Italian  poets.  Some  scraps  of  it  have  remained; 
she  did  not  even  give  me  her  hair,  for  I  am  blond 
like  my  father,  a  pale  blond  that  is  my  despair,  for 
I  have  not  a  blond  soul." 

"Do  you  think  that  the  soul  and  the  hair  are  al- 
ways of  the  same  color,  almost  to  the  nuance?  It 


68  Very  Woman 

is  true  that  nuances  are  of  consequence.  The  fem- 
inine hair  assumes  more  than  thirty  tints  that  are 
entirely  different  and  can  be  depicted  by  precise 
words,  half  of  which  are  daily  used,  but  at  random. 
These  tints  blend  and  intermingle  to  infinity  and  the 
very  eye  can  hardly  define  them  by  immediate  com- 
parison. This  is  so  true  that,  as  you  know,  you 
can  never  match  hair.  Would  it  not  be  amusing  to 
make  a  classification  of  feminine  characters  ac- 
cording to  the  terms  of  the  nuances  of  their  hair? 
It  would  suffice  to  determine  the  exact  tone  so  as 
to  be  able  to  pronounce  upon  the  character,  the  pas- 
sional faculties,  the  inclination  towards  friendship 
or  love,  the  sentiment  of  duty,  the  maternal  tender- 
ness, and  the  like.  Those  somnambulists  who  make 
use  of  this  principle  without  method  and  without 
preliminary  studies,  occasionally  reach  curious  rev- 
elations. In  five  or  six  years,  this  science  will  be 
perfected,  and  those  who  possess  it  to  perfection 
will  be  able  to  determine  a  man's  character  through 
a  lock  of  hair,  and  will  know  what  to  do  in  order 
to  take  advantage  of  him.  But  fools  and  the  ig- 
norant always  escape  the  power  of  intelligence; 
they  will  acquire  the  facile  ruse  of  shaving  their 
skulls,  and  this  will  once  more  prove  the  futility  of 
all  knowledge  and  the  vanity  of  mind." 

"Apply  to  me  the  science  of  to-morrow.  What 
is  the  color  of  my  soul?"  asked  Sixtine,  wishing  to 
make  use,  like  all  women,  of  the  least  general  idea. 

"A  changing  blond,  a  flame  blond,  or  if  you  wish 
to  decompose  the  nuance,  tawny,  ash  and  gold. 


The  Promenade  of  Sin  69 

Tawny  is  savagery,  ash  is  nonchalance,  gold  is 
passion.  Your  horoscope  will  be  like  this:  a  wo- 
man fluctuating  between  the  desire  to  be  enchained  to 
tenderness  and  her  love  of  independence,  but  who 
will  resign  herself  to  the  choice  which  circumstances 
make  for  her;  as  indolence  is  a  bad  body  guard,  it 
is  probable  that  she  will  be  won.  .  .  ." 

"Taken!"  cried  Sixtine,  "taken!  I  told  you  so. 
I  await  the  robber !" 

"Indeed,  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  Won  or 
taken  by  some  one  she  perhaps  will  not  love,  but  who 
will  have  been  finer  and  stronger  than  the  others. 
Conclusion:  the  final  acquiescence  of  her  nonchal- 
ance." 

"No!  not  that.  The  robber  must  please  me. 
But  why  the  future?  Perhaps  the  destinies  are 
already  accomplished?  What  do  you  know  of 
that?" 

"Oh!  nothing,"  said  Entragues,  somewhat 
troubled.  "Only,  men  always  dream  in  a  woman's 
presence  of  the  morrow,  never  of  the  day  before. 
It  seems  that  the  morrow  belongs  to  them,  as  a 
necessary  consequence  of  the  present  moment,  and 
when  they  cannot  regulate  it  for  their  personal 
profit,  vanity,  at  least,  will  not  be  displeased  to  adapt 
it  somewhat  by  insinuation.  The  most  foolish 
among  them  believes  himself  born  to  be  the  director 
of  conscience;  and,  in  fact,  since  they  cannot  govern 
themselves,  it  is  perhaps  their  true  vocation." 

"It  is  certain,"  Sixtine  answered,  "that  women 
are  not,  happier  for  having  won  the  liberty  of  the 


7o  Very  Woman 

bridle  on  their  necks.  They  generally  want  too 
many  things  at  one  time  to  wish  seriously  for  any 
one  thing,  and  it  is  rendering  them  a  service  to  fix 
the  road  where  their  desires  can  gallop  more  at  ease. 
Unfortunately,  tyranny  is  neighbor  to  good  counsel ; 
one  cannot  always  distinguish  one  from  the  other. 
That  is  why  we  have  revolted.  Then  it  is  a  great 
temptation  to  a  man  to  legislate  upon  all  things,  as 
soon  as  a  woman  has  accepted  some  of  his  advice; 
orders  follow,  despotism  commences,  and  insurrec- 
tion is  justified." 

"You  speak,  Madame,  like  a  statesman,  and  I  am 
astonished  that  you  are  not  somewhat  of  an  Egeria !" 

"I  was  and  I  wearied  of  the  role.  So  your  jest 
is  not  to  the  purpose.  It  is  perhaps  amusing  to  lead 
women,  but  not  men.  The  Egeria  they  want  holds 
in  leash  a  tiny  plump  creature  with  drooping  ears; 
Rops  has  designed  it,  and  while  I  do  not  frequent 
the  private  museums,  I  have  seen  it.  An  Egeria  by 
day,  and  it  is  always  the  same  one,  whose  soul  be- 
comes visible  to  their  spirituality  under  the  most 
secret  and  revealing  hair.  It  is  there  they  go  to  seek 
the  soul's  color." 

Sixtine  had  spoken  with  a  juvenile  warmth  which 
discouraged  Entragues.  It  was  the  indignation  of 
a  woman  whose  intelligence  has  been  disdained  and 
who,  considering  herself  a  political  collaborator, 
has  seen  her  role  reduced  to  that  of  a  carnal  instru- 
ment. He  pretended  to  have  only  remarked  the 
lively  side  of  her  talk,  and  replied: 

"I  did  not  dare,  in  my  theory  of  the  science  of 


The  Promenade  of  Sin  71 

hair,  to  put  all  the  possible  harmonies  in  line.  The 
clothes,  moreover,  make  a  further  research  alto- 
gether puerile,  partaking  of  a  sickly  curiosity. 
Yet,  though  the  agreement  of  tones  is  far  from  be- 
ing perfect  always,  one  must  take  account  of  it. 
Confess,  too,  Madame,  that  if  it  is  not  the  palace  and 
residence  of  Psyche,  it  is  at  least  her  country 
house." 

"Well,"  said  Sixtine,  laughing  good-naturedly, 
"I  pardon  you  for  that  last  word,  but  do  not  begin 
again." 

"But  it  was  you.  .  .  ." 

"That  is  not  the  same  thing.  I  did  not  insist. 
Hush!  you  will  spoil  for  me  all  the  verses  in  which 
tresses  are  mentioned,  and  even  those  of  Berenice 
will  become  suspect.  You  have  seen  me  'under  the 
ephemeral  moon.'  I  would  like  to  know  just  when." 

"Seen?  Yes!  I  have  particular  faculties  of  vis- 
ion and  sometimes  I  evoked  you  near  me  by  magic. 
The  object  I  strongly  think  about  is  incorporated 
before  my  eyes  in  a  visible  form  and  often  becomes 
palpable  to  the  touch.  I  have  felt  presences  of  per- 
sons who  were  actually  quite  remote  from  me. 
And  this  does  not  at  all  astonish  me,  for  regular 
sensation  is  only  a  true  hallucination.  For  me,  it 
is  a  matter  of  indifference  whether  it  be  true  or 
false.  I  hardly  worry  about  it." 

"Then  all  women  are  at  your  mercy?  If  a 
woman  you  loved  shunned  your  entreaties,  would 
imagination  .  .  .  would  imagination  suffice?" 

"No,  that  would  be  the  vilest  of  sins,  the  most 


72  Very  Woman 

sacrilegious,  and  the  most  useless.  Of  what  avail 
is  an  unshared  carnal  pleasure?  No,  such  acts  as 
those  are  only  too  dismal.  I  am  not  the  unchaste 
passerby  of  the  poet,  I  do  not  delight  in  ridiculous, 
incomplete  and  dull  profanations.  No  more  am  I 
a  Jean-Jacques.  The  Most  High  has  not  favored 
me  with  a  gift  that  would  be  fatal  to  the  women  of 
my  time." 

"Do  you  believe  that  these  hallucinations  would 
be  so  disagreeable  to  them?  For  when  one  wishes 
to  please,  one  wishes  to  please  in  everything." 

"There  are  feminine  perversities,"  Entragues  re- 
turned, "that  are  sufficiently  frightful  to  content 
one  with  the  metaphysics  of  pleasure.  But  I  see 
beyond.  Parallel  dreams  strive,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, towards  the  same  end.  Result:  mutual  pos- 
session at  a  distance.  What  a  triumph  for  love! 
What  a  resource  for  separated  lovers!" 

"It  is  not  for  you  to  speak  of  our  perversity,  you 
who  are  endowed  with  such  a  perverse  imagina- 
tion." 

She  gasped  a  little  for  breath  and  fanned  her- 
self, oh!  without  fear,  the  feeble  sex,  and  with  a 
firm  head. 

A  short  silence  followed. 

This  unusual  costume  which  had  first  broken 
Entrague's  chain  of  sensation,  now  delighted  him. 
He  was  thankful  to  Sixtine  for  not  having  ap- 
peared in  a  house  robe  of  the  latest  style,  for  this 
would  have  swerved  the  talk  to  the  vulgar  stupidity 
of  Parisian  gossip  or  of  a  dialogue  in  modern  com- 


The  Promenade  of  Sin  73 

edy.  A  somewhat  different  intimacy  with  Sixtine 
seemed  extremely  desirable;  a  second  and  identical 
bifurcation  led  his  sentiment,  starting  from  curios- 
ity, to  desire. 

"Introduce  me  to  your  history."  He  repeated 
to  himself  the  first  measure  of  the  symphonic  son- 
net, and  the  very  affright,  in  its  recall,  pursued  the 
heels  of  the  desire. 

She  reflectively  watched  him,  not  without  little 
impatient  movements  of  her  fingers. 

"She  who  would  make  him  her  slave,  would 
doubtless  make  him  wise." 

"Yes,  doubtless." 

Sixtine  pronounced  these  few  words  gravely,  in 
a  cordial  manner. 

Under  the  green  of  the  old  tapestry  that  hung 
from  the  ceiling  and  covered  a  whole  side  of  the 
wall,  in  the  still  and  cool  room,  a  warmth  of  spring 
was  diffused  in  golden  waves;  it  was  suddenly 
wafted  from  the  vaporized  intimacy. 

Uttering  the  appropriate  trifles,  to  which  En- 
tragues  lightly  replied,  Sixtine  rose,  lit  a  blue  flame 
under  the  copper  kettle,  opened  a  box  of  cigarettes, 
moved  about  in  such  an  adorable  setting  that  he 
smiled  with  joy  to  see  her  go  and  come,  lavishing 
pretty  movements  and  beautifully  arched  gestures. 

She  poured  tea. 

"Now  recollect.  You  owe  me  my  commentary. 
What  is  that  vision  in  which  I  appeared  with  'the 
brow  studded  with  stars  ?'  " 

He  told  of  the  astonishing  apparition,  adding  that 


74  Very  Woman 

there  was  a  story  which  Monsieur  de  B .  knew. 

Sixtine  interrupted  him  and  pronounced  the  al- 
ready familiar  words : 

"If  you  wish,  I  shall  tell  you  the  story  of  the 
portrait  chamber." 

Entragues  started  and  grew  pale.  This  exceeded 
the  bounds  of  probability.  With  a  weak  voice,  he 
answered : 

"I  really  would  like  to  hear  it." 

Sixtine  began : 

HISTORY  OF  THE  PORTRAIT  CHAMBER 

"It  is  a  tragic  and  rather  strange  story  .  .  ." 
She  stopped,  seeming  to  summon  her  memory. 
Then: 

"No,  I  should  indeed  prefer  not  to  tell  you  it." 

"Oh!  please,"  urged  Entragues,  like  a  child  who 
opens  two  wide,  curious  eyes. 

"No,  sometime  later,  perhaps.  If  you  had  asked 
it  down  there,  before  those  verses,  before  a  coinci- 
dence which  I  guess  and  which  disturbs  me!  I 
cannot  just  now.  When  you  learn  it,  you  will  un- 
derstand, and  this  very  reticence  will  seem  clear  to 
you  ...  It  is  said  that  it  has  never  lied  .  .  .  Well, 
listen :  The  Chateau  de  Rabodange  at  one  time  was 
the  hereditary  domain  .  .  .'  It  is  too  much  for 
me  ...  Childishness?  Don't  say  that!" 

"But  I  said  nothing.  The  emotion  I  see  you  in 
does  not  suggest  such  words  to  me.  Let  us  forget 
the  story  .  .  ." 

"Well,"  replied  Sixtine,  "try  to  guess  it.     You 


The  Promenade  of  Sin  75 

can.  I  give  you  permission.  Perhaps  you  will  tell 
it  to  me.  Let  us  talk  no  more  of  it  and  please  go. 
I  get  up  early  and  I  must  sleep.  You  see  that  I 
treat  you  like  a  friend." 

She  had  such  a  nervous  air  that  Hubert  asked  for 
nothing  better  than  to  obey  her,  not  wishing  to 
spoil  his  evening  by  the  blunder  of  a  reserve  which 
henceforth  might  be  necessary  before  the  woman 
who  no  longer  seemed  mistress  of  herself.  It  was 
the  moment  for  retreat  or  the  moment  for  a  bold 
stroke.  He  pursued  the  first  course,  the  second 
not  having  entered  his  mind.  When  it  was  a  mat- 
ter of  other  persons,  or  when  he  reflected  at  leisure 
on  his  own  sentimental  adventures,  Entragnes  pos- 
sessed a  remarkable  lucidity  of  mind;  before  the 
cause  itself — the  cause  in  person,  throbbing  and 
eloquent — he  was  confused,  like  a  school-boy,  and 
obeyed,  unaware  of  his  stupidity,  those  false  in- 
sinuations of  women  who  ask  for  a  violet  so  as  to 
get  a  rose.  He  therefore  made  ready  to  leave, 
saying : 

"I  would  not  wish  to  oppose  such  good  habits." 

"Is  it  not  written,"  she  responded  in  the  same 
light  tone,  "  'flee  all  occasions  of  sinning?'  " 

"And  even  Saint  Bernard,  in  his  Meditations, 
considers  the  contemplated  sin  as  serious  as  the 
perpetrated  one.  Not  to  flee  the  occasion  is  to  an- 
ticipate the  offense  and  render  it  inexcusable.  But 
I  do  not  see  how  early  rising  specially  agrees  with 
this  precept.  On  the  contrary,  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  longer  the  day,  the  more  numerous  are  the  stones 


76  Very  Woman 

on  the  road.  Then,  can  it  be  that  you  want  to 
travel  along  the  road  of  perfection?" 

"I  am  anxious  not  to  soil  my  life  with  any  chance 
entanglement.  Are  not  evil  connections  less  to  be) 
feared  from  seven  o'clock  until  noon,  than  from 
seven  o'clock  until  midnight  ?  The  most  elementary 
reasoning  would  easily  demonstrate  this,  I  fancy." 

"Ah!"  Hubert  said,  feeling  the  need  of  a  mis- 
chievous air.  "You  know  the  hours  when  Sin 
promenades,  and  have  you  encountered  Sin?" 

"Often,"  Sixtine  jestingly  responded,  "often  and 
Her  Highness  always  favors  me  with  a  smile.  She 
is  not  proud  and  she  willingly  offers  her  hand;  you 
can  see  that  she  loves  men  in  a  friendly  rather  than 
in  a  princely  way ;  between  them  is  an  old  familiarity. 
Daily  she  returned  with  joy  to  the  legitimate  bed 
fallen  to  her  lot.  By  an  astonishing  multiplicity 
of  faces,  statures,  gestures,  voices,  Sin  courts 
women,  clothing  herself  in  the  dreamed-of  form,  and 
that  is  why  I  would  rather  bring  to  an  end  my 
promenade  before  she  commences  hers.  But,  I 
pray  you,  please  go.  Yes,  come  occasionally,  at 
the  same  hour.  A  bientot." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  UNLEAVENED  DOUGH 

Vauvenargues 

"La   beaute   c'est   la    forme   que   1'amour 
donne  aux  choses." 

Ernest  Hello. 

"Flaubert,  pas  de  sentiment . . .  S'il  1'avait, 
cela,  il  aurait  tout." 

Conversations  de  Villier  de  1'Isle-Adam. 

SMOKING,  strolling  about,  making  paradoxes — 
there  were  a  half  dozen  of  them  under  the  dis- 
tracted presidency  of  Fortier,  who  was  correcting 
proofs  for  his  first  number  of  the  new  series. 

"Good  day,  Entragues.  You  received  my  note 
and  you  are  bringing  me  some  copy.  Now  that  we 
come  out  every  fortnight,  I  am  going  to  be  very 
hungry,  I  warn  you." 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  review  lack  copy — a  review 
which  pays  ?"  Hubert  answered.  "Print  Constance. 
You  owe  it  to  your  subscribers.  'Every  woman 
would  like  to  read  this  new  study  of  youthful 
psychology.  The  orginality  of  the  thought,  the 
pure  relief  of  the  style,  together  with  the  profound 
knowledge  of  all  the  mysteries  of  the  feminine  heart, 
make  it  an  exquisite  masterpiece  of  the  analysis  of 
passion.  Please  insert.'  " 
77 


78  Very  Woman 

"He  promised  me  a  novel." 

"With  an  alluring  title,"  interrupted  a  voice. 

Entragues  turned  his  head.  A  young  man,  with 
a  correct  and  cold  air,  was  looking  at  him.  Fortier 
introduced  them  to  each  other.  He  was  a  friend  of 
the  countess.  They  surely  must  have  met  at  the 
Marigny  Avenue  home?  Entragues  acquiesced  in 
this  insinuation,  thinking:  Tomorrow,  or  the  day 
after,  my  poor  Fortier,  the  countess  and  la  Revue 
Speculative  will  belong  to  Lucien  Renaudeau. 

"The  title?" 

"Alluring,"  repeated  Renaudeau ;  "it  is  called : 
'Pure  as  Fire/  " 

"This  florist  of  souls  quite  pleases  me,"  said  Jean 
Chretien,  in  a  slow  and  rich  voice.  "I  am  looking 
over,  among  his  books,  The  Wisdom  of  the  Na- 
tions.' It  is  full  of  incontestable  truths.  One  walks 
here  in  a  friendly  garden :  all  the  aphorisms  of 
Stendhal  and  Balzac  frequently  crop  forth.  But 
if  we  wish  to  start  a  seriously  symbolistic  review, 
it  is  necessary  to  tempt  culture  with  less  familiar 
animals." 

Sylvestre  entered  with  a  cloudy  air  and  Renau- 
deau instantly  addressed  him  in  a  harsh  tone : 

"Now  tell  us  who  is  that  counterfeit  of  old  George 
Sand  who  came  here  yesterday  with  your  recom- 
mendation?" 

"With  a  dog  under  each  arm  ?" 

"A  black  and  a  blond  one.  She  offered  us  copy, 
patrons,  loans,  her  experience,  romantic  souvenirs, 


The  Unl evened  Dough  79 

the  last  boots  of  Alexander  Dumas,  cards  of  the  chief 
of  police,  the  address  of  a  photographer  and  three 
copyists,  an  interview  with  Bouvier,  the  right  to  re- 
print the  complete  works  of  her  late  husband,  tickets 
for  the  coming  Elysee  ball  and  for  women,  too,  I 
think,  but  that  was  a  bit  vague." 

"Oh!"  Sylvestre  gently  answered,  "she  is  old  and 
poor,  she  must  make  a  living." 

"I  do  not  see  the  necessity,"  Renaudeau  said. 

"A  fine  silhouette  for  a  'Parisian'  novel,"  Fortier 
said. 

"Doubtless,  because  it  would  be  true?"  asked 
Jean  Chretien,  a  poet  who  professed  Buddhism. 
"Would  you  become  a  modernist?" 

"A  naturalist,"  said  Fortier,  laughing,  "I  want 
to  make  money." 

"I  fancy  you  will  want  to  a  little  later,"  said 
Entragues.  "The  original  cavern  is  empty.  Do 
you  take  Huysmans  for  a  naturalist?  But  his  A 
Rebours  is  the  most  insolent  mockery  of  this  very 
school,  when  he  simply  replies  to  Zola's  "naturiste" 
and  democratic  enthusiasm: 

"Nature  has  had  its  day!" 

"That  is  a  book!" 

"A  disheartening  book,"  Entragues  continued, 
"one  which  has  confessed  in  advance,  and  for  long, 
our  tastes  and  distastes." 

"Yes,"  Chretien  agreed,  "but  I  am  speaking  of 
others,  of  the  na'ive  souls  who  believe  that  because 
an  object  moves  it  must  exist.  Nature!  but  it  is 


8o  Very  Woman 

the  artist  who  creates  nature,  and  art  is  only  the 
faculty  of  objectifying  in  an  image  the  individual 
representation  of  the  world. 

"And,"  Passavant  put  in,  "man  himself  is  only  the 
image  of  the  idea." 

"In  that  case,"  Chretien  answered,  "far  from  at- 
taining the  absolute  truth,  as  those  ninnies  boast  of 
doing,  art  is  but  a  reflected  image — the  image  of  an 
image.  It  is  no  longer  the  will  which  acts  directly, 
but  only  a  will  already  fixed  in  the  individual,  sub- 
jected to  intelligence,  weakened  by  division,  in  short, 
limited  to  whims." 

"Such  writers,"  Entragues  remarked,  "are,  like 
the  generality  of  men,  almost  the  whole  humanity, 
victims  of  an  optical  illusion.  They  imagine  that 
the  external  world  acts  outside  of  them;  this  is  a 
transcendental  stupidity,  but  which  is  not  necessarily 
produced  by  their  special  esthetics.  The  world  is 
the  idea  I  have  of  it,  and  the  special  modulations  of 
my  brain  determine  this  idea.  They  have  ugly 
brains,  that  is  all.  One  could  make  amusing 
sketches  in  this  way :  the  world  as  seen  by  a  crab, 
the  world  as  seen  by  a  pig,  the  world  as  seen  by  a 
helminth.  We  describe  ourselves,  we  can  describe 
only  that;  an  artist's  creation  is  the  slow  and  daily 
reaction  of  intelligence  and  will  on  a  certain  mass 
of  individual  cells." 

"It  would  then  be  necessary,"  Renaudeau  said, 
"to  accept  them  as  they  are!  Not  quite.  One  can 
recreate  oneself,  cleanse  one's  low  nature,  take  it  to 
the  Turkish  bath,  sponge  it,  rub  it  until  the  blood 


The  Unlevened  Dough  81 

circulates.  You  are  too  indulgent,  Monsieur  En- 
tragues." 

"Entragues,"  said  Calixte  Heliot,  who  just  then 
entered,  "loves  nothing  but  art  and  interests  himself 
only  in  style." 

"A  novelty,  indeed!"  Entragues  replied.  "Un- 
fortunately, art  is  not  sufficient  to  produce  style;  a 
gift  is  necessary.  Without  that  thing  which  Vau- 
venargues  calls  heart,  Villiers  sentiment,  Hello  love, 
literature  is  an  unleavened  dough.  Look  at  Flau- 
bert; he  is  a  peremptory  and  sovereign  artist  who 
congenitally  lacked  love.  Do  you  think  that  Vil- 
liers, by  the  most  diligent  labor,  could  have  effaced 
from  his  work  the  stamp  of  his  proud  personality! 
Compare  Bowvard  et  Pecuchet  with  the  Contes 
cruels;  there  you  have  the  patient  genius  and  the 
spontaneous  genius,  resigned  scorn  and  indignant 
scorn,  a  hurt  intellect  and  a  wounded  soul.  .  .  ." 

"Are  you  bringing  me  your  poem,  Heliot  ?"  For- 
tier  asked.  "Just  put  it  in  the  closet  with  the  mas- 
terpieces." 

"Thank  you,"  Calixte  said,  simply,  as  he  opened 
a  huge  portfolio. 

From  it  he  drew  his  manuscript,  where  could  be 
read,  on  the  first  page,  the  author's  name,  Calixte 
Heliot,  in  a  very  beautiful  flowing  handwriting. 
He  was  proud  of  his  Christian  name.  Then  he 
brought  out  a  small  case  and  slowly  untied  its 
strings. 

"Here  is  a  masterpiece  for  you.  Eh!  What 
does  Van  Bae'l  think  of  it?" 


82  Very  Woman 

The  art  critic  took  the  little  yellow  paper,  a  deli- 
cate etching,  and  pronounced : 

"Good,  very  good,  a  little  dark,  too  deeply  bitten. 
From  afar,"  and  he  stretched  out  his  hand,  "from 
afar  it  turns  to  aquatint." 

"By  whom  is  it?  There  is  an  S  and  an  M  inter- 
laced at  the  left-hand  corner." 

"S  M,  S  M,"  repeated  Van  Bael.  "I  cannot 
guess.  It  is  a  portrait.  I  see  more  letters  after 
the  monogram.  Strange,  strange  ...  It  reads :  S. 
M.  to  S.  M.  A  laconic  dedication  of  the  author 
to  himself,  or  else  a  strange  coincidence  of  initials." 

Nobody,  not  even  Entragues  who  studied  it  in- 
tently, could  find  the  key  to  the  monogram. 

Hubert  and  Calixte  were  old  friends  who  owed 
each  other  valuable  services.  Calixte  observed 
Hubert's  insistance:  a  fatidical  attraction,  rather 
than  curiosity,  fascinated  his  eyes,  keeping  them 
glued  to  the  engraving. 

"You  can  have  it  if  you  wish,  my  dear  Entragues." 

"I  accept  it,"  Entragues  replied,  "but  with  the 
permission  of  being  able  to  return  it  to  you  or  else 
to  throw  it  into  the  fire." 


CHAPTER  XI 

DIAMOND  DUST 

"Chino  la  fronte  e  con  lo  sguardo  a  terra 
L'amoroso  Pensier  rode  se  stesso." 

Cav.  Marino,  VAdone,  VIII,  12. 

MORE  than  two  weeks  had  passed  since  the 
feverish  and  mysterious  evening  which  Six- 
tine  granted  to  Entragues.  Three  times  he  had 
tried  to  see  her,  three  times  he  had  failed :  irritated, 
exasperated,  cast  down,  such  were  his  three  suc- 
cessive states  of  mind. 

After  the  door  had  closed  on  him,  by  the  gleam  of 
an  instantaneous  if  tardy  clairvoyance,  he  had  seen 
and  deciphered  Sixtine's  final  irony:  "You  do  not 
take  me?  Yet  I  am  at  your  mercy.  I  have  the 
air  of  thinking,  of  listening,  of  speaking,  but  I  do 
not  think,  I  do  not  listen,  I  do  not  speak — I  merely 
pretend  to  do  all  these  things  and  I  await.  Yet  an- 
other half-hour,  another  ten  minutes,  five,  one,  the 
last  one,  nothing!  Go!  you  make  me  lose  my 
patience !" 

"Now,"  Entragues  told  himself,  "it  is  quite  well 
reorganized,  I  must  not  lose  it."  And  going  by 
the  longest  route  to  his  home,  meditatively  he  re- 
composed  the  scene,  wrote  it  in  his  mind.  How 
would  it  go  at  the  theater?  He  planned  the  play. 
83 


84  Very  Woman 

While  the  man  in  love  explains  the  tenderness  of  his 
sentiments,  the  woman  disrobes.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders :  this  would  not  be  understood,  he  would 
be  charged  with  coarseness.  And  yet  the  comic 
Plato  had  already  done  it,  then  Andronicus,  then 
several  Destouches,  several  Picards  and  several 
Augiers. 

One  could  pass  on  a  little  note  to  the  eminent 
professors  who  lecture  on  dramatic  history  (that 
vast  science  in  three  hundred  thousand  feuilletons}  : 
Note. — Cf.:  Plato  com.  Frag.  ed.  Brulend.  §j; — 
Andron.  ap.  Taschend.  t.  XXXVII;  etc.  In  the 
matter  of  books,  criticism  buries  you,  in  the  matter 
of  the  theater,  it  overwhelms  you.  To  write  for 
one's  sole  pleasure,  with  an  absolute  disdain  for 
present  opinions.  Yes,  but  if  they  are  just,  that 
is  to  say  favorable,  one  glories  in  it.  Isolation 
is  difficult,  vanity  ceaselessly  and  indefatigably  sol- 
ders the  cable  one  has  cut.  Vanity!  Fatuity! 
And  in  everything.  Thus  this  monologue  lends  it- 
self to  Sixtine.  I  reason  like  a  male;  and  she  feels 
like  a  female  and  I  shall  never  know  what  she  felt 
at  a  certain  moment,  because,  even  taking  for 
granted  a  confession  and  the  wish  to  be  sincere, 
she  would  lie  by  nature.  The  truth  is  what  one 
thinks  it;  when  one  no  longer  thinks  of  anything — 
all  is  reduced  to  nothing!  There  remains  sensa- 
tion, but  analyzed  sensation — diamond  dust ! 

He  went  to  bed  feeling  miserable,  and  as  he  was 
dozing  off  with  the  consciousness  of  his  moral 
powerlessness  he  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  despond- 


Diamond  Dust  85 

ency  comparable  to  that  of  impotent  men  when  in 
the  presence  of  the  desired  woman.  Incapable  of 
loving,  incapable  of  tearing  from  his  heart  the  par- 
asitic science  whose  tentacles  strangled  him,  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  swallowed  plaster,  as 
if  muddy  blood  stagnated  in  his  veins;  or  rather 
as  if  his  arteries  slowly  carried  a  curare  which 
gradually  benumbed  his  muscles.  His  mind  ob- 
structed with  the  most  contradictory  metaphors,  he 
tried  them  one  after  the  other,  vaguely  disgusted 
with  their  absurdity.  Finally,  with  a  rush  of  vital- 
ity, he  somewhat  reconquered  his  logic  and  ceased 
to  hold  himself  in  contempt :  "I  suffer,  hence  I  love !" 
This  thought,  though  he  ironically  perceived  its 
mild  naivete,  comforted  him,  a  very  long  and  de- 
£isive  breathing  reestablished  the  haematosis,  and 
he  was  able  to  sleep  peacefully. 

Painful  doubts  of  this  sort  came  to  torture  him 
on  more  than  one  evening.  He  was  only  delivered 
from  them  by  anger — the  first  time  that  he  knocked 
at  Sixtine's  door  without  getting  a  response.  Cer- 
tain deceptions  on  certain  days  determined  this  ac- 
tion, when  strong  desire  had  a  precise  end.  At 
this  moment  it  was  to  see  Sixtine,  merely  to  see 
her,  merely  the  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 

The  effect  was  the  same  after  the  second  check, 
but  accentuated  to  a  sort  of  rage,  a  hardly  dangerous 
crisis  whose  very  lashes  were  salutary. 

The  last  mockery  of  fortune,  on  the  other  hand, 
threw  him  into  a  resigned  dejection.  "She  does  not 
want  to  see  me;  I  have  displeased  her,  but  how? 


86  Very  Woman 

Yet  I  love  her."  Thus  displaced  from  the  subject 
to  the  object,  doubt  was  supportable  as  an  imposed 
pain  which  one  accepts  without  having  any  respon- 
sibility: "It  is  not  my  fault." 

So  he  paced  the  streets  or  visited  his  friends  and 
the  Revue  speculative,  a  pale  melancholy  upon  him 
like  the  vegetation  of  a  cave.  Under  the  shadow 
of  a  strong  habit  which  no  disturbance  could  up- 
root, he  still  worked  in  the  mornings,  but  he  short- 
ened the  hours,  impatient  for  his  distracting  strolls. 
His  imagination  no  longer  accompanied  him.  It 
seemed  that  in  ever  projecting  his  thought  towards 
an  external  creature,  he  had  proportionately  dimin- 
ished the  intensity  of  his  evocative  faculty. 

As  he  was  leaving  the  Revue,  after  Fortier  had 
told  him  that  the  countess,  now  installed  in  her 
home  because  of  affairs,  was  receiving  some  friends 
on  a  certain  evening,  at  nine  o'clock,  he  discovered 
that  the  present  day  was  Wednesday,  the  day  in 
question. 

"Perhaps  I  will  find  Sixtine  there?" 

This  quite  natural  reflection  guided  his  somnam- 
bulism towards  Marigny  Avenue.  In  the  interval 
he  had  dressed  and  dined  with  a  perfect  unconscious- 
ness. A  system  of  newly  organized  revery  relieved 
the  slow  and  rude  friction  of  transitions ;  furnished 
with  a  problem  of  metaphysics,  commerce,  art,  poli- 
tics, it  mattered  not  what  so  long  as  it  required 
shrewd  deductions,  he  used  to  be  so  perfectly  ab- 
sorbed in  them  that  the  hours  vainly  pricked  him 
with  their  pins,  the  minutes.  He  walked  through 


Diamond  Dust  87 

the  streets  insentient,  inexistent.  But,  involuntar- 
ily, this  action  of  his  mind  which  shut  him  in  be- 
tween the  walls  of  the  fixed  idea  was  a  grievous  im- 
prisonment against  which  his  will  rebelled ;  on  the 
other  hand,  chosen  and  brought  about  in  entire  free- 
dom, this  incarceration  saved  him,  without  the  tax 
of  suffering,  from  the  ennui  of  expectation.  Noth- 
ing was  so  painful  to  him  as  changes  of  rhythm. 
He  wished  them  to  be  abrupt  or  imperceptible,  par- 
taking of  a  sudden  brutality  or  of  an  infinitesimal 
gentleness,  the  unity  of  force  sustained  with  all  its 
initial  violence  or  decomposed  into  the  infinity  of  its 
diminishing  fractions.  Leibnitz  had  taught  him  the 
arithmetical  method  of  reducing  the  sensation  of 
time  to  an  evanescent  progression:  he  applied  the 
method  to  life.  To  live  and  not  to  be  aware  of  liv- 
ing was  an  ideal  to  which  his  senses,  deceivers,  but 
unrelenting,  too  often  barred  the  road.  Today  the 
obstacle  had  been  surmounted. 

In  the  small  modern  room  on  the  ground  floor 
there  were  many  people:  some  raised  their  heads 
when  his  name  was  announced;  the  usual  move- 
ments and  whisperings : 

"An  Entragues?" 

"Which  Entragues?" 

"Oh!  some  stray  stem  of  an  Entragues!  The 
name  is  quite  common  in  the  South." 

"Yet  he  carries  himself  well." 

"The  countess  will  tell  us  about  him."  As  soon 
as  he  was  freed  from  the  ceremonial  of  introduction, 
Entragues  sought  the  eyes  of  some  friend  with 


88  Very  Woman 

whom  he  could  be  at  ease.  He  found  Sixtine's  eyes : 
a  gesture  beckoned  him. 

He  obeyed  without  astonishment,  for  he  had  seen 
a  chair  near  her,  guarded  by  a  fan. 

"I  noticed  you.  How  criminal  I  consider  myself 
towards  your  friendliness  and  insistence.  .  .  .  Do 
you  want  me  to  number  your  visiting  cards?  Why 
did  you  not  write  to  me?" 

"But  I  wanted  to  see  you." 

"Yes,  but  writing  has  a  witchery  unknown  to 
printed  forms.  Instead  of  seeking  me,  you  should 
have  called  me.  And  you  have  sought  so  badly!" 

"No,  since  I  find  you  at  last." 

"By  chance!  Are  you  satisfied?  You  wished 
to  see  me,  well,  look  at  me." 

"That  is  what  I  am  doing,"  Hubert  responded, 
"and  with  pleasure.  I  would  never  grow  tired  of  it, 
Madame." 

"I  supposed  it  was  quite  the  other  way,"  Sixtine 
rejoined,  "and  that  a  secret  or  very  inconsiderate 
presentiment  informed  you  of  my  absences.  How 
one  blames  one's  friends !  For  the  past  three  weeks, 
I  left  three  times,  in  the  evening,  to  come  here,  and 
naturally  on  the  Wednesday  of  each  week.  Admit 
that  it  was  odd  for  me  to  find  your  card,  each 
Wednesday  that  I  returned  home." 

"I  am  lost  if  you  suppose  I  did  it  purposely," 
Hubert  answered,  "for  every  explanation  is  too 
simple  to  seem  probable.  I  will  give  you  the  best 
one,  although  it  may  not  perhaps  be  the  true  one. 
The  first  evening  in  which  I  passed  a  few  minutes 


Diamond  Dust  89 

at  your  home  was  a  Wednesday.  A  latent  force 
must  have  led  me  to  your  door  on  the  following- 
Wednesdays,  and  this  without  any  participation 
of  my  will.  This  periodical  return,  like  the  regular 
culmination  of  a  feverish  condition,  is  after  all  quite 
natural." 

"These  are  the  reasonings,"  Sixtine  replied,  "of 
an  automaton  who  would  be  hard  put  to  explain 
why  he  always  plays  the  same  tune  on  the  flute,  at 
the  same  hour.  But  you  have  come  to  the  countess, 
instead  of  knocking  at  my  door.  Did  no  one  wind 
you  up  this  morning?  On  whom  does  this  task  de- 
volve?" 

"It  would  be  yours,  Madame,  if  you  consented." 

Each  of  them,  ill  at  ease,  felt  the  same  desire  to 
be  silent  and  to  go  away.  Sixtine,  not  yet  calmed 
after  the  old  ill-humor  that  had  finally  exploded, 
feared  to  hurt  Hubert,  feared  to  bleed  him  with  too 
many  prickings.  Hubert,  who  feigned  a  sad  polite- 
ness, endured  suffocating  agony.  So  he  had  been 
judged  and  Sixtine  had  pronounced  sentence,  with 
what  aggravations  for  the  unhappy  man!  In- 
capable, perhaps,  of  loving;  certainly  incapable 
of  sharing  his  love.  Would  no  mirage,  then,  be 
able  to  deceive  him  persistently,  with  sufficient 
certitude  to  give  him  courage  to  lead  across  the 
desert,  towards  the  oasis,  a  phantom  of  love  vivified 
by  desire?  She  scoffed  him  and  he  surrendered," 
she  fled  and  he  watched  her  flee. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  which  she  had  rapidly 
descended,  remorse  seized  Sixtine  by  the  flap  of  her 


90  Very  Woman 

cloak;  she  turned  her  head  and  waited  for  several 
seconds.  Then,  lifting  her  skirts,  she  hurried  to 
the  carriage  which  a  watchful  gamin,  upon  noticing 
her  at  the  sidewalk,  had  motioned  with  mock  ges- 
tures of  obsequiousness.  Profiting  by  the  new  in- 
decision, remorse  tried  to  seduce  her  with  these 
insinuations : 

"The  air  is  very  pleasant,  the  sky  is  clear,  it 
would  be  nice  to  return  on  foot,  chatting  on  the 
way.  This  poor  Hubert  would  appreciate  it,  and 
I  have  really  been  a  bit  severe  with  him :  he  asks 
so  little!  But  what  can  he  be  doing?" 

She  listened:  no  sound  of  a  person  issuing  from 
the  house.  "What  is  this!  You  seem  to  be  wait- 
ing for  him !  What  an  attitude  for  a  woman !" 
the  thin  and  whispering  voice  of  feminine  vanity 
breathed  to  her.  She  gave  the  driver  her  address 
and  climbed  into  the  carriage. 

Hubert  had  slowly  walked  down  the  stairs 
stopping  at  each  step.  He  staggered  under  a  fit  of 
contempt.  His  whole  person,  the  very  necessary 
movement  of  his  limbs  seemed  to  him  an  insult  to 
life.  His  reflection,  perceived  in  the  mirrors,  gave 
him  a  horror  of  effectual  futility.  This  careful 
attire — what  a  pretentious  obedience  to  vanity! 
How  ugly  he  was  with  his  pale  cheeks  and  empty 
gaze!  Ah!  dust  compressed  into  a  human  form, 
what  prevents  thee  from  returning  to  thy  natural 
state,  where  thou  couldst  humbly  blend  thyself,  as 
would  be  fitting,  with  the  bruised  and  scorned  sand 
crying  beneath  thy  phantom  feet? 


Diamond  Dust  91 

He  reached  the  gate;  a  carriage,  detaching  itself 
from  the  file,  departed:  "Perhaps  it  was  she?  No, 
she  must  be  far  away,  by  now.  The  air  is  very 
pleasant,  the  sky  clear,  it  would  have  been  nice  to 
return  on  foot,  chatting.  This  pleasure  was  not 
made  for  me,  and  it  is  ridiculous  even  to  dream 
of  it.  Yet,  would  she  have  refused  me,  if  I  had 
asked  ?  Eh !  there  I  reason  as  if  this  woman  had  the 
slightest  liking  for  me.  Shall  I,  then,  never  cure 
myself  of  the  stupid  presumption  with  which  I  so 
grievously  delude  myself?  What  is  the  good  of 
my  philosophy?  Everything  is  useless.  Ah!  I 
suffer  less!  The  futility  of  my  life  is  not  unique; 
it  is  confounded  with  the  universal  nothingness. 
Yes,  but  all  the  same  I  can  only  consider  myself, 
only  myself,  since  I  know  nothing  outside  of  my 
consciousness.  Well,  then !  I  remain  alone,  indem- 
nified and  invulnerable.  What  is  that  cloud,  called 
Sixtine,  which  comes  to  trouble  my  royal  indiffer- 
ence and  to  conceal  my  sun — death?  I  do  not 
want  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  shadow  of  her  beauty. 
What  is  the  good  of  loving,  when  the  awakening 
is  certain.  Ah!  if  eternity  were  given  me!  Indis- 
pensable eternity,  without  you  life  is  only  a  quite 
despicable  thoroughfare.  Does  the  present  hour 
exist  for  the  condemned  person  who  knows  that 
the  next  hour  will  not  belong  to  him?  And  this 
life  is  less  than  an  hour  for  whomsoever  knows  the 
worth  of  what  he  has  been  deprived  of  in  being 
robbed  of  eternity."  How  he  would  have  sacri- 
ficed his  genius  to  be  a  Christian  and  no  longer  a 


92  Very  Woman 

dilettante  of  Christianity,  believing,  not  in  the 
unique  beauty,  but  in  the  truth  of  religion,  assured 
not  alone  of  his  social  necessity,  but  of  his  immut- 
able, absolute  and  solar  truth ! 

He  issued  from  his  metaphysical  cloud  near  the 
Pont-Royal,  and  fell  back  into  his  actual  misery. 
The  woman  he  loved  did  not  love  him  and  would 
never  love  him.  In  vain  he  scorned  himself,  in 
vain  he  accused  himself  of  emotional  impotence, 
the  man  deep  in  him  protested  and  repeated:  "I 
must  love,  since  I  suffer." 

But,  with  Entragues,  the  man  never  pronounced 
the  final  aphorism.  After  the  troubled  divagations 
of  the  lover  came  the  romancer,  an  artist  or  ditch- 
digger  who  gathered  impressions  together,  clothed 
them  in  words  as  with  a  shroud  of  chatoyant  folds, 
and  laid  them  to  rest,  with  care,  respect  and  tender- 
ness, in  the  vault  whose  portal  bears  the  words 
written  in  letters  of  gold:  LITERATURE. 

He  went  to  sleep,  dreaming  of  the  embryo  of  a 
romance  which  a  more  disinterested  person  would 
find  in  this  new  adventure.  But  perhaps  he  would 
some  day  acquire  that  necessary  disinterestedness ! 
At  first  the  idea  was  outrageous,  then  he  grew 
accustomed  to  it;  he  mentally  sketched  a  first  chap- 
ter— that  of  ftie  encounter.  He  transported  the 
scene  to  Naples,  at  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
and  the  personages  'became  pure  symbols.  The 
Man,  a  prisoner,  typified  the  idea  of  the  soul  impris- 
oned in  the  jail  of  the  flesh,  quite  ignorant  of  the 
external  world,  refashioning  the  vague  vision 


Diamond  Dust  93 

transmitted  by  the  senses.  The  Woman,  a  ma- 
donna, was  a  statue  which  the  prisoner's  love  en- 
dowed with  life  and  feeling,  becoming  as  really 
existent  to  him  as  a  creature  of  God.  And  on  this 
theme  could  be  developed  all  the  divagations  of 
love,  dream  and  madness. 

On  the  morning  of  the  next  day,  he  commenced 
this  story  which  was  closely  based  upon  his  actual 
state  of  mind,  and  in  which  he  would  take  delight 
in  transposing,  in  a  manner  of  logical  extravagance, 
the  drama  he  was  naively  playing  with  Sixtine. 

This  madonna  was  the  new  woman,  la  Madonna 
Novella,  and  what  name  should  be  given  to  the 
prisoner,  a  prey  to  his  own  imagination,  if  not  that 
of  Delia  Preda,  since  we  are  in  Italy.  Veltro  fits 
the  indispensable  turnkey,  and  for  title — The 
Adorer. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    ADORER 

"Ave  rosa  speciosa  I" 

Innocent  III. 
I.     Blood  Red 

Sainte  Napolitaine  aux  mains  pleines  de 
feux,  Rose  au  coeur  violet,  fleur  de  sainte 
Gudule,  As-tu  trouve  ta  croix  dans  le  desert 
des  cieux? 

Gerard  de  Nerval,  les  Chimeres. 

THE  night  entered  through  the  loophole — the 
end  of  a  day  of  horror.     He  had  been  for- 
gotten; he  had  not  been  given  his  daily  walk.     Per- 
haps he  was  going  to  perish  here,  without  seeing 
the  Novella  again. 

Morning,  noon  or  evening,  according  to  the 
arabesques  of  his  fancy.  Veltro,  his  jailor,  opened 
the  door  with  a  violent  turn  of  the  key:  "To  the 
tower!"  Delia  Preda  obediently  climbed  the  few 
steps  of  the  narrow  and  dim  stairway;  he  climbed 
slowly,  as  if  to  perform  a  duty  to  which  no  excep- 
tion could  be  taken,  for  he  knew  that  these  daily 
moments  of  apparent  liberty  in  the  open  air  were 
given  to  intensify  the  horrors  of  his  cell  and  to 
prevent  him  from  losing  the  notion  of  time  and  the 
duration  of  his  torment.  It  is  to  reach  this  end 
rationally,  without  doubt,  that  the  modern,  rigid 
94 


The  Adorer  95 

philanthropists  instituted  strict  regulations  in  the 
new  prisons.  In  1489  the  chief  constables  of 
Naples  already  knew  the  means  of  preventing  these 
abuses  of  confidence  by  which  the  condemned  per- 
son transmutes  his  punishment  into  an  evil  dream; 
but  this  was  reserved  for  the  prisoners  of  distinc- 
tion. Guido  della  Preda,  Count  of  Santa-Maria, 
was  accused  of  having  conspired,  some  said  against 
the  security  of  the  State,  others  against  the  queen's 
honor.  Because  he  was  a  gentleman,  they  had  not 
hanged  him;  they  had  not  beheaded  him  because 
he  was  innocent;  a  special  punishment  had  fallen 
to  his  lot,  for  in  a  royal  jail  a  difference  must  be 
established  between  prisoners  who  are  guilty  and 
those  who  are  not. 

He  was  in  solitary  confinement ;  the  consciousness 
of  the  injustice  he  suffered  might  have  led  him  into 
attempts  at  escape  or  revolt,  and  his  intelligence 
would  have  made  him  the  chief  of  the  rascals 
sprawling  all  together  on  the  straw  of  the  common 
dungeon;  and  it  is  not  fitting  that  a  prisoner  leave 
the  prison  through  the  window  or  that  a  jailer  be 
strangled  in  a  scuffle:  it  sets  a  very  bad  example 
and  is  liable  to  discredit  prisons.  There  was  yet 
another  reason  for  this  refinement,  a  privilege  dis- 
cussed and  accorded  by  the  State  Council  at  the 
request  of  the  Holy  Office  (for  Delia  Preda  was 
one  of  the  thirteen  peers  of  royalty)  :  "Our 
Guido  is  innocent  according  to  laws  of  this  world, 
but  who  can  boast  of  being  so  according  to  eternal 
laws  ?  Let  him,  then,  suffer  in  advance  the  punish- 


96  Very  Woman 

ment  which  God  reserves  for  him  upon  his  entry 
into  the  other  life!  Let  him  suffer  more  than  the 
others,  since  he  is  less  guilty !  Let  each  hour  of  his 
mortal  life  be  a  painful  preparatory  measure  lead- 
ing to  liberating  death,  through  which  eternity 
opens !  Ah !  What  a  good  fortune  for  him  to  have 
been  implicated  in  this  action !" 

The  nineteenth  hour  sounded,  seven  o'clock 
according  to  our  mode  of  reckoning  time ;  by  habit, 
Delia  Preda  lifted  his  eyes  towards  the  space 
framed  by  the  high  walls,  and  then  towards  the 
beginning  of  the  arch,  but  he  only  beheld  the  night. 
This  clock  indicated  the  time  for  him  by  ringings 
violent  as  trumpets,  and  truly  the  pious  desires  of 
the  Holy  Office  were  being  accomplished:  the 
mortal  hours  of  his  mortal  life  fell  one  by  one  on 
his  head,  like  leaden  balls. 

But  all  had  not  been  forseen!  What  holy  monk 
could  divine  that  within  himself  the  prisoner  would 
find  joys  and  torments  which  not  even  the  venomous 
Parthenope  could  have  aroused  in  any  heart. 

The  Tower  of  the  Cross  (Torre  della  Croce},  so 
called  at  that  time  and  for  the  past  four  hundred 
years  the  Tower  of  the  Prey  (Torre  della  Preda}, 
dominates  with  its  battlements  all  the  vulgar  quar- 
ters of  Naples.  It  rears  itself  at  the  extreme  end 
of  a  mass  of  old  ruins  still  serving  as  a  prison, 
through  custom,  and  to  which  the  people  have  given 
the  name  of  Prison  of  the  Blood-Hound  (Career 
delle  Veltro}.  At  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
these  ruins,  of  a  somewhat  recent  reconstruction, 


The  Adorer  97 

had  the  appearance  of  a  fortress,  and  a  space  of  a 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  was  free  between  the  walls, 
flanked  by  moats,  and  the  first  low  houses  of  the 
outskirts. 

At  the  center  of  the  platform  where  Delia  Preda 
was  daily  led,  a  guard  house  was  built  which 
divided  it  in  two,  save  for  narrow  passages,  and 
limited  the  view  on  the  side  of  the  country.  As  he 
placed  his  foot  on  the  last  step,  the  prisoner  had 
opposite  him,  to  his  left,  the  town  which  stood  out 
in  the  distance,  full  of  square  belfries  and  domes; 
to  the  right  was  the  blue  gulf. 

A  church  with  flying  buttresses,  heavy  and  in 
ruins,  first  draws  the  unaccustomed  glance  and 
fixes  it  by  the  splendor  of  its  brilliantly  ornamented 
madonna.  When  the  setting  sun  sank  to  the  end 
of  the  pointed  niche  and  bathed  her  with  rays,  the 
rubies  and  chrysolites  of  her  tiara,  the  lepidolites 
and  topazes  of  her  starred  aureola  reflected  the 
brilliance  of  luminaries  and  the  faced  adorned  with 
diamond  eyes  looked  rapturous. 

The  first  time  that  Guido  climbed  to  the  tower 
was  an  evening  when  the  sun  was  setting.  He  saw 
neither  the  flashing  town  with  its  green  terraces, 
nor  the  blue  bay  with  its  white  sails;  but,  uttering 
a  cry,  he  asked : 

"Down  there !     Down  there !     Who  is  that  lady  ?" 

"That  lady?  What  lady?"  repeated  Veltro,  with 
an  astonished,  already  uneasy  eye. 

"Yes,  that  lady  in  front  of  the  church  of  the 
Orphans  ?" 


98  Very  Woman 

"Ah!  you  mean  above  the  portal?  That's  the 
Novella,  my  lord,"  Veltro  replied,  baring  his  head 
as  he  pronounced  the  name,  "a  blessed  and  benev- 
olent madonna.  You  can  hardly  see  her  well  from 
below,  the  street  is  too  narrow,  but  everybody  knows 
that  she  is  there,  and  that  is  enough." 

"What  an  agreeable  woman!"  answered  Guido. 
"O  Novella!  Protect  me  and  love  me!" 

He  knelt,  bending  his  head,  and  when  he  stood 
up,  after  the  last  words  of  his  supplicating  ave, 
the  Novella  was  smiling,  full  of  grace  and  tender- 
ness. 

"So  you  accept  my  prayer?  Thanks,  madonna! 
Deign  to  receive  me  as  your  worshiper,  let  my 
breathing  be  a  praise  to  your  immaculate  tender- 
ness, to  your  sovereign  grace.  Open  your  good- 
ness to  the  irrevocable  gift  of  my  life.  Let  me  be 
to  you  as  the  pupil  to  the  eye  which  moves  it  as 
it  wills.  Trample  me  with  the  blessed  weight  of 
the  adorable  feet  which  crushed  the  serpent!  Let 
my  flesh,  for  love  of  you,  be  withered,  my  bones 
broken,  my  blood  shed.  Ah!  I  love  you,  I  Novella, 
blessed  and  benevolent  madonna!" 

The  madonna  accepted  the  pact :  a  sign  denoted 
her  wish,  her  choice  and  her  pleasure.  Three 
times  her  eyelids  drooped  over  her  eyes  and  three 
times  they  were  raised.  Then  night  fell  and  it 
seemed  to  Guido  that  a  most  notable  miracle  had 
suspended,  for  several  instants,  the  sun  at  the 
horizon's  edge. 

"He   is   guilty,   quite   guilty,"   Veltro   reflected, 


The  Adorer  99 

"but  he  has  piety,  he  regrets  his  crimes.  May  the 
madonna  listen  to  him !" 

"Listen  to  me,  my  lord,"  added  the  jailor,  "and 
know  that  there  is  no  better  recourse  in  the  world 
than  to  implore  the  Novella.  You  see  it  is  not  for 
nothing  that  she  is  called  the  Madonna  of  the  Or- 
phans! Her  arms  always  are  open  and  she  does 
not  carry  a  babe  because  all  God's  creatures  are  her 
children.  She  is  the  only  one,  at  least  to  my 
knowledge.  Santa  Madonna  degli  Orfani,  ora  pro 
nobis. 

During  the  two  months  that  the  Novella  had  been 
Guide's  mistress,  she  had  given  him  only  happiness, 
charming  and  adorable  happiness.  He  loved  her 
and  she  smiled  upon  his  love,  except  on  certain 
days  when  a  light  cloud  made  ashen  the  pure  face 
or  the  clear  eyes  of  the  beloved.  He  loved  and, 
absorbed  in  his  worship,  felt  himself  loved.  At 
first  apprehensive,  his  tenderness  now  grew  daring. 
The  gentle  but  eternal  smile  no  longer  sufficed. 
The  lover  felt  passion's  boldness  grow  in  his  heart, 
like  an  imprisoned  rose  impelled  by  its  sap  to  throw 
the  living  treasure  of  its  purple  to  the  broad  day- 
light. The  hour  was  approaching  when  the  timid 
adorer  would  demand  some  tokens  from  the  silent 
adored  one,  oh!  the  merest  tokens  of  an  adoration 
that  was  shared;  the  hour  was  approaching,  the 
hour  of  communion,  the  spirtual  hour  which  takes 
its  sister  by  the  hand,  the  hour  of  serious  and  ten- 
der eyes,  the  hour  of  strong  caresses — the  carnal 
hour. 


ioo  Very  Woman 

The  dark  day  which  he  passed  under  the  hammer 
strokes  of  the  pitiless  clock  was  all  the  more  pain- 
ful to  Guido  since  he  had  chosen  it  for  definite 
questionings.  Like  all  others,  like  lovers,  he  wished 
to  know  how  matters  stood,  when  it  is  simple  to 
direct  one's  own  questions  and  answers:  but  that 
is  perhaps  what  he  did,  and  why  do  anything  else? 

Veltro  explained.  It  had  been  the  fete  of  San 
Gaetano,  the  country  his  wife  came  from,  about 
two  leagues  from  Naples.  He  had  received  per- 
mission, had  left,  like  a  mad-cap,  without  inform- 
ing the  valet  charged  with  his  duties.  Would  his 
lord  the  prisoner  be  good  enough  to  forgive  him?" 

"Yes,  Veltro,  I  pardon  you.  You  are  not  bad 
and  I  believe  you  will  not  let  it  occur  again,  when 
I  tell  you  that  I  have  suffered  greatly." 

He  slowly  mounted,  as  to  a  certain  joy,  half 
shutting  his  eyes  under  the  prolonged  caresses  of 
desire,  counting  the  steps,  trembling  at  the  approach 
of  the  last  and  thirty-third. 

A  sudden  alarm  arrested  his  customary  transport 
as  he  reached  the  battlements :  he  advanced  hesitat- 
ingly, with  gestures  of  astonishment  and  deception. 

"Yet  it  is  she,  it  is  really  she,  and  I  do  not  recog- 
nize her." 

"Set  your  mind  at  rest,  my  lord,  there  is  nothing 
the  matter,  quite  the  contrary.  They  have  put  on 
her  summer  robe,  that's  all.  The  Novella  changes 
her  attire  each  season.  And  then  there  was  a 
holiday,  as  well.  Ah!  if  I  had  known!  But  how 
beautiful  she  is!  She  is  beautiful  as  a  queen." 


The  Adorer  101 

Yes,  she  was  beautiful.  But  Guido  paused  a 
moment  before  admitting  this  transmutation  in 
which  he  had  not  at  all  participated.  He  sadly 
regarded  the  new  Woman,  sadly  and  with  reproach- 
ful eyes : 

"Are  there  seasons  for  my  love?  Are  there 
days,  are  there  hours?  I  loved  the  sky-colored 
robe  which  you  had  put  on  for  our  first  meeting? 
Why  then  have  you  doffed  it  ?  Was  it  intended  for 
me,  at  least?  Did  you  wish  to  surprise  me  with 
a  richer  vesture  that  would  more  nobly  become 
your  serene  beauty?  Ah!  queen,  this  too  comely 
cloak  does  not  bring  my  heart  nearer  to  your  heart, 
nor  your  lips  to  my  lips ;  then,  to  what  avail  ?  You 
were  blue  like  the  sky  and  the  sea,  blue  like  the 
dream,  blue  like  love — why  this  bleeding  purple? 
In  what  stream  of  blood  have  you  dipped  your 
grace?  Had  I  not  offered  you  the  torrent  of  my 
veins?  Queen,  you  have  betrayed  me!  You  still 
smile  at  me,  but  your  smile  is  cruel,  you  scoff,  you 
scorn !  An  unfriendly  day  was  that  one  in  which, 
far  from  my  tears,  you  permitted  barbarous  hands 
to  profane  the  limbs  I  adore !  It  was  I  who  should 
have  divested  you,  it  was  I  who  should  have  covered 
you,  divine  and  nude,  in  the  sacred  cloak  of  my 
effusions!  Ah!  you  make  me  weep,  Novella! 
What!  you  too  weep,  dear  Passion,  so  you  do  yet 
love  me?  Oh!  weep  not!  Pardon,  pardon,  I  am 
the  wicked  one,  I  am  the  inclement  one,  and,  more- 
over, I  was  mad.  It  is  conceivable:  I  thought  I 
had  lost  you.  But  no,  it  is  not  so?  You  are  mine, 


IO2  Very  Woman 

more  than  ever,  only  mine !  Let  me  be  truly  happy ! 
No  ?  Heed  me,  I  love  you !  Not  yet  ?  It  is  true, 
I  did  doubt  you;  it  is  necessary  to  suffer,  I  wish 
to  suffer." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CHRISTUS   PATIENS 

"Elle  ne  jugeait  pas,  ayant  d'autres  pen- 
sees." 

Villiers  de  1'Isle-Adam,  Isis. 

"TN  this  so  lightly  tilled  field,  where  the  corn 
JL  has  been  so  hurriedly  sown,"  Entragues  told 
himself,  "I  reap  nothing  but  problems,  tares,  weeds, 
ridiculous  rank  grasses  !  For  three  days  I  have  had 
only  the  worry  of  a  mathematician  intent  upon 
insoluble  x's. 


SERIES  OF  X's. 

xa.  —  It  was  poison. 

xb.  —  History  of  the  portrait  chamber. 

xc.—  S.  M.  to  S.  M." 

xa 

"I  believed  I  could  find  the  solution.  In  truth, 
the  problem  was  buried;  it  sprang  up  again,  evoked 
by  the  two  others." 

xb 

"Is  it  a  history  in  which  she  is  implicated?     Is 
a  page  of  her  life  written  in  this  mysterious  cham- 
103 


IO4  Very  Woman 

ber  where  innocent  travelers  are  favored  with  such 
astonishing  visions?  Must  this  second  x  be  joined 
to  the  first  one?  A  crime  might  have  been  com- 
mitted there." 

xc 

'There  is  no  doubting,  if  heaven  has  endowed 
me  with  some  divining  sense,  that  one  of  the  mono- 
grams signifies  Sixtine  Magne  and  perhaps  both 
resolved  themselves  into  the  identical  syllables:  a 
homage  of  the  present  to  the  pact,  of  the  Sixtine 
of  to-day  to  the  Sixtine  of  yesterday :  a  portrait  of 
the  lover  or  husband,  since  she  was  married.  Ah! 
I  have  it !  Her  husband  had  a  Christian  name 
commencing  with  S.  It  is  a  question  of  finding 

an  engraver  with  the  name  of  S Magne  and  that 

may  easily  be  ascertained  at  some  print  dealer's 

shop;    or    else,    in    the    case    of    a    lover,    S 

M .     Upon  what  do  I  base  this  deduction  ?     On 

nothing.  The  twice-repeated  initials  of  the  woman 
I  love  ought  to  torment  me,  else  I  would  not  love 
her.  Perhaps  they  only  conceal  names  of  no  in- 
terest to  me,  but  the  'perhaps'  suffices  to  justify 
my  uneasiness.  The  past?  Enough  of  that.  The 
present?  Ah!  the  unknown  enemy  which  one  di- 
vines in  smiles,  in  incomplete  phrases,  in  gestures, 
and  even  in  the  little  intimacies  of  the  woman  who 
lets  herself  be  loved!  A  pleasant  sensation  and 
one  which  I  still  have  not  experienced!  The  jeal- 
ousy without  cause,  the  jealousy  that  nothing  can 


Christus  'Patiens  105 

cure — not  even  possession!  ...  I  must  put  down 
that  remark,  it  is  true." 

He  wrote  several  lines  in  his  note-book:  "Does 
a  woman's  supreme  abandon  prove  her  love?  No, 
for  this  may  be  due  to  the  occasion,  to  ennui,  to 
the  need  of  deceiving,  to  vengeance,  to  the  per- 
versity which  throws  her  into  your  arms.  To  feel 
yourself  loved,  it  is  necessary  to  believe;  love  is 
a  religion.  You  must  have  faith,  you  must  love 
yourself.  Love  yourself?  Yes,  that  is  the  means 
of  being  the  more  easily  deceived.  First  to  strip 
yourself  of  reason,  then  to  plunge  towards  the  truth! 
Absurd.  Faith,  then?  Yes,  to  have  faith,  and  is 
truth  itself  any  thing  except  faith?  Truth,  faith 
— two  aspects  of  one  entity — the  mystery  of  a 
God  in  two  persons.  Ah!  if  I  believed  that  I  was 
loved  by  Sixtine,  she  would  love  me,  I  would  have 
peace,  the  joy  of  union.  It  can  be  done.  How? 
Perhaps  merely  by  not  reflecting.  To  embark  on 
the  light  skiff  and  go  down  with  the  current  of 
water.  .  .  .  Towards  the  Ocean,  yes,  towards  the 
ineluctable  abyss?  Evidently,  but  this  detail  is  in- 
significant. The  thing  is  to  embark  and  not  to  pass 
your  life  in  watching  others  depart  for  the  exquis- 
ite unknown.  But  you  return  from  it !  Then  what 
is  the  good?  If  the  current  is  a  circuit,  it  is  just 
as  well  to  remain  at  home  and  read  the  Divine 
Comedy.  Alighieri  himself  returned!  There  is 
only  death.  But  one  never  returns  from  death,  and 
it  is  of  little  avail  to  another;  but  it  has  its  answer 


io6  Very  Woman 

ready  and  whispers  it  in  the  ear  when  it  is  so  in- 
clined. Bitter  is  life,  more  bitter  is  death." 

A  church  stood  near  him.  He  recognized  the 
humble  Saint-Medard,  entered  and  fell  on  his  knees : 

"O  God  of  the  Cross,  Christus  patiens,  eternally 
suffering  Christ,  hearken  to  me!  I  seek  joy,  I  seek 
love,  I  seek  grief,  and  I  find  only  a  dreary  void.  I 
can  neither  enjoy  myself,  nor  love,  nor  suffer. 
Take  me  by  the  hand  and  lead  me  as  a  mother  leads 
her  child.  Must  not  one  first  suffer  with  thee? 
Then  will  come  love,  like  rain  in  the  desert,  and 
joy  will  dawn,  the  joy  of  loving,  the  joy  of  having 
suffered.  .  .  ." 

"I  presume  to  pray,"  said  Entragues  to  himself, 
lifting  his  head,  "and  I  am  giving  vent  to  rhetoric. 
This  prayer  is  welcome,  and  if  I  can  remember  it, 
I  will  use  it.  It  would  be  blasphemous  to  take  my 
note-book  and  write  it  down !  Why  not !  One  must 
profit  from  inspiration,  for  it  can  not  be  recovered." 

He  made  a  note  of  his  ejaculation,  with  very  slight 
variations. 

"I  stopped  myself  in  time.  The  unconscious 
comedy  would  have  made  me  blush  in  the  end.  Do 
I  pray  seriously  and  am  I  a  Christian?  Yes,  I 
wish  to  be  a  Christian,  and  to  partake  of  the  most 
mystic  and  abstract  Catholicism,  when  this  would 
serve  only  to  separate  me  from  the  abject  mob, 
renouncing  like  a  vile  freedman  the  religion  which 
drew  it  from  slavery.  It  is  quite  evident  that  in  my 
very  heart  I  believe  in  the  divinity  of  Jesus  rather 


Christus  P aliens  107 

than  in  that  of  Sakya-Mouni  and  that  T  laugh  at 
the  vanity  of  an  unconscious  creator!  .  .  . 

"Ah!  how  enervating  are  these  solitary  rounds!" 

Then,  suddenly : 

"I  must  see  her,  I  must  see  her !  Ah !  provided 
it  isn't  Wednesday?" 

The  newspapers  spread  on  the  stand  of  a  little 
bookshop  told  him  that  to-day  was  Friday,  October 
27.  So  ten  days  had  already  passed,  ten  irrevoc- 
able days  since  that  dismal  Wednesday  when 
his  love  had  collapsed.  Collapsed!  well,  it  could 
be  rebuilt.  But  it  really  was  too  much,  liter- 
ally, to  love  at  a  distance.  Sixtine  did  not,  like 
himself,  occupy  her  hours  in  analyzing  everything 
and  nothing:  to  have  oneself  loved,  one  must  be 
seen.  Henceforth,  he  would  seek  every  occasion, 
he  would  follow  her  like  a  hunter,  pressing  her 
pitilessly  to  the  very  quarry  of  kisses.  He  would 
cease  reflecting,  and  would  think  only  of  the  end, 
counting  obstacles  as  naught.  He  would  commence 
from  this  evening. 

His  feet,  already,  obeyed,  following  this  mental 
activity.  He  quickly  ascended  a  popular  street  full 
of  children,  little  democratic  dauphins,  brats  of  the 
modern  sovereign.  At  this  moment  the  inventor 
of  popular  suffrage  seemed  to  him  the  most  exe- 
crable monster  produced  by  humanity  and  Nero  and 
Attila,  recast  in  a  single  model,  compared  to  this 
unknown  dastard,  were  creatures  worthy  of  the 
genuflection.  No  one  had  abased  the  Idea  to  this 


108  Very  Woman 

point,  no  one  had  tried  to  make  of  the  world  such 
a  desolate  stable,  where  the  kicking,  respected 
Houyhnhms  would  have  the  ascendancy.  He  was 
a  Pharisee  and  did  himself  justice  for  never  having 
eaten  the  bitter  hay  of  this  royal  rack:  at  the  age 
of  reason  he  had  renounced,  with  disgust,  his  part  in 
the  sovereignty  and  never  had  a  ballot  soil  his  aris- 
tocratic fingers.  This  was  due  less  to  his  early  edu- 
cation than  to  subsequent  and  personal  reflections, 
for  modern  degeneration  accepts  accomplished  facts, 
and  all  that  is  left  are  single,  inward  and  useless  pro- 
tests. 

As  he  descended  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel,  his 
step  fell  into  an  idle  rhythm  with  the  pace  of  the 
strollers.  He  looked  around  him  and  judged  that 
no  superior  essence  emanated  from  this  other  en- 
vironment :  here  was  the  same  evaporation  of  un- 
consciousness. Below,  just  as  alongside  and  above, 
by  devious  ways  people  sought  happiness,  without 
suspecting,  according  to  Pastor  Manders,  that  it  is 
open  rebellion  to  seek  happiness  in  this  life.  The 
social  right  was  another  political  illusion  equally 
chimerical.  On  this  subject  Herbert  decided  to 
read  some  Hobbes,  at  the  first  opportunity. 

But  did  he  himself,  for  example,  consider  him- 
self above  or  only  on  a  level  with  humanity?  Ah! 
there  is  the  intimate  thought  of  each  of  the  noble 
copies  of  baked  clay  which  a  God  formerly  modeled 
on  the  shores  of  the  Tigris:  I  and  the  others,  I 
and  men,  I  and  the  rest,  etc.  It  is  thanks  to  this 
process  that  one  judges,  that  one  writes  the  novel 


Christus  P aliens  109 

or  the  story,  that  one  rails  in  comedies  or  in 
shorter  pleasantries.  Judging  is  the  universal  and 
the  particular,  it  is  everything,  it  is  life.  Is  not 
the  famous  tribunal,  the  tribunal  of  consciousness, 
with  egoism  for  presiding  judge  and  vices  for 
assessors?  And  Hubert  judged  too:  in  defiance  of 
all  reason,  he  weighed  the  imponderable  and  fath- 
omed the  impenetrable,  that  is  to  say,  the  thoughts 
of  others,  without  reflecting  that  one  can  know  noth- 
ing outside  of  oneself  and  that  to  judge  men,  in 
short,  is  to  judge  the  idea  we  have  of  men.  Like 
the  first  of  these  prisoners,  he  had  let  himself  be 
caught  in  the  snare  of  reality :  scoffing  at  those  who 
sought  happiness,  he  scoffed  at  himself,  for  what 
had  he  done  since  his  birth  in  this  world  of  sensi- 
bility except  to  consume  the  best  part  of  his  force  in 
this  quest?  Vain  and  vainer  than  ever  now  that 
he  was  straying  towards  the  external  clouds.  To 
what  did  he  pretend,  in  loving  Sixtine,  and  the 
yielding  clouds  dispersed,  would  he  enjoy  himself 
just  as  well  with  the  fundamental  night?  When 
he  broke  the  dear  head  between  two  stones,  would 
he  see  what  was  within?  One  can  doubtless  use 
more  human  means  and,  for  example,  inoffensive 
fascination. 

He  returned  to  his  preceding  revery  and  the 
circle  was  closed;  decidedly  he  must  not  reflect,  he 
must  act. 

He  found  himself  in  excellent  humor  and  quite 
ready,  this  time,  to  count  without  boredom  the 
quarter  hours  on  the  clocks  of  the  streets.  He  would 


no  Very  Woman 

even  have  willingly  laughed  with  some  chance  com- 
panion, or  considered  the  toddling  of  women,  or 
strolled  past  diverting  pictures.  The  Louvre,  which 
he  perceived  from  the  other  side  of  the  stream, 
tempted  him :  he  went  to  see  once  more  the  striking 
Clytemnestra  so  drolly  illuminated  with  a  torch 
and  he  was  soon  amusing  himself  in  this  room 
which,  in  previous  days,  he  would  have  called  a 
corner  of  shame.  It  did  not  equal,  for  comic  inten- 
sity, the  terrible  Hogarths  and  the  distressing  Dau- 
miers,  but  David  and  his  school,  nevertheless,  had 
ridiculed  antiquity  successfully.  The  sober  Flax- 
man  had  never  succeeded  in  delineating  personages 
so  completely  stupified  at  having  been  cut  out  by  a 
punch. 

Entragues  had  once  said  that  to  make  place  for 
this  foreign  exhibition  the  paintings  of  the  masters 
of  an  immoral  nudity  had  been  hidden  in  closets: 
it  was  the  secret  cabinet  of  the  guards  of  the  Peo- 
ple's paintings.  There  remained  to  determine  if  bad 
paintings  has  not  its  own  immorality  and  if  the 
Serment  des  Horaces  should  not  be  put  under  key 
as  well  as  the  Atalante  et  Meleagre,  the  Parrhasius, 
perhaps  a  little  exciting,  in  which  Tiberius  delighted  ? 

From  the  arbitrary  stupidity  of  the  Neo-Romans 
Entragues  went  to  the  powdered  heads  of  those  ene- 
mies of  the  Nation  and  Humanity  which  David  had 
designed,  finally  stripped  of  their  paint,  but  so 
scornful  that,  one  might  say,  he  had  lowered  their 
eyes.  The  Pierrot  gallery  was  charming  and  made 
you  understand  the  Revolution,  the  envy  of  the 


Christus  Fattens  in 

People  and  its  hate  for  graces  so  high  and  remote. 

While  leaving,  and  under  the  portices  of  the  rue 
de  Rivoli,  he  began  to  follow  a  woman  whose  restless 
gait,  from  the  Cour  du  Louvre,  excited  his  curiosity. 
She  was  not  at  all  bad;  she  wore  a  rather  original 
dress  with  black  lace  that  fell  in  waves ;  but  nothing 
striking.  A  brown  pigment  covered  her  eyes  and 
served  as  a  background,  but  there  was  no  magical 
attraction:  she  was  somewhat  tall,  slender,  dark, 
very  pale  and  the  two  sides  of  her  face  seemed  un- 
equal, because  of  the  unequal  droop  of  the  corners 
of  her  mouth,  the  unequal  lifting  of  her  brows 
above  heavy  eye-lashes,  one  quite  distended,  the 
other  in  little  contracted  waves. 

Nothing  of  caricature,  but  the  sustained  impres- 
sion was  painful. 

The  flat  basket  of  an  orange  seller,  at  the  corner 
of  the  rue  de  Marengo,  and  the  sundry  encumbrances 
of  boxes  and  little  wagons  under  the  three  arcades, 
seemed  to  exasperate  her;  she  hastened  forward, 
brushed  against  the  fourth  pillar,  then  against  the 
fifth,  then  against  the  others,  but  sedately  now,  like 
a  person  who  walks  unconcernedly.  If  a  group  of 
persons  collected  around  a  pillar,  she  waited,  brushed 
against  it,  and  left;  if  the  distraction  of  shop-win- 
dows had  drawn  her  towards  the  other  side  of  the 
walk,  she  quickly  returned,  as  if  with  remorse  at 
having  passed  one  of  the  steps  of  her  sorrowful 
path.  Strict  obedience  to  her  impulse  did  not  pre- 
sent her  from  noticing  the  curiosity  of  the  passer- 
by, but  she  had  acquired  such  a  skill,  through  long 


ii2  Very  Woman 

practice  doubtless,  such  a  deceptive  gait,  that  no 
one  noticed  her. 

She  crossed  the  Palais-Royal  Square,  gained  the 
Avenue  de  1'Opera,  all  the  time  touching  the  gas 
lamps,  trees  and  columns.  There,  she  recommenced 
her  maneuver  with  this  variation:  she  touched 
each  shop-door  with  her  knee.  One  of  them  was 
opened ;  she  waited,  as  before  a  precipice,  gazing  at 
the  curtains  of  red  plush  of  a  milliner  of  ill-repute ; 
she  had  such  an  unfortunate  air  that  Entragues,  with 
a  discreet  bow,  accosted  her: 

"You  seem  troubled,  Madame,  can  I  be  of  any 
service?" 

She  looked  at  him,  and  not  observing  anything 
unpleasant  in  his  tone  or  gestures,  replied : 

"Yes,  you  can  save  me,  if  you  have  any  magnet- 
ism. Call  a  carriage,  get  in  with  me  and  take  me 
back.  I  live  at  the  Avenue  de  Clichy  and  am  going 
there  on  foot  without  being  able  .  .  .  without  be- 
ing able  to  do  otherwise  .  .  .  You  have  seen  me? 
As  soon  as  I  go  out  by  myself,  I  walk,  I  walk  .  .  . 
and  when  I  return,  I  faint  with  fatigue  and  shame." 

Entragues  had  already,  with  his  lifted  cane,  sig- 
naled a  coachman,  who  drew  near  the  pavement. 

"You  are  merely  a  little  nervous  and  need  rest. 
Come,  here  is  the  carriage." 

He  took  her  arm;  she  resisted,  saying,  for  the 
abyss  had  closed: 

"Always  this,  nothing  but  this,  the  last  one!" 

She  had  set  off  again,  turning  her  head  sup- 
plicatingly,  but  without  will-power. 


Christus  P aliens  113 

"Well!"  Entragues  thought,  "if  I  use  force,  the 
passerby  will  be  attracted.  As  for  magnetism,  I 
can't  see  myself  making  passes  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  here  in  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera.  It  re- 
quires a  severe  glance  and  a  commanding  voice. 
What  an  odd  adventure  and  what  a  queer  hysteri- 
cal person!" 

Nevertheless  he  went  and  overtook  her. 

"Come,"  he  roughly  said,  "the  carriage  is  waiting. 
Come." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and,  under  his  steady  gaze,  let 
herself  be  led. 

Once  in  the  carriage,  she  grew  amiable,  very  am- 
iable in  fact ;  she  told  him  secrets,  spoke  of  her  hus- 
band, of  her  little  girl,  her  only  child  who  was  so 
dark  and  pretty,  so  capricious  and  wilful,  breaking 
the  heads  of  her  dolls  to  punish  them,  throwing  live 
coal  on  rugs  to  smell  the  burning  odor,  only  liking 
salads,  oranges  and  raw  carrots,  and  not  yet  eight 
years  old! 

"Stop  the  carriage  there,"  she  said  as  they  ar- 
rived at  Clichy  Square.  "I  am  so  grateful  to  you 
and  you  must  come  to  see  me.  Would  you  like  to 
be  my  doctor?  Be  my  doctor.  I  will  obey  you 
implicitly." 

"But  .  .  ." 

"You  are  no  doctor,  but  what  does  it  matter? 
So  long  as  my  husband  believes  it.  He  leaves  at 
ten  o'clock  each  morning.  He  is  a  stupid  function- 
ary .  .  .  Ah!  I  am  not  understood!" 

Her  eyes,  lit  like  embers,  betokened  an  approach- 


U4  Very  Woman 

ing  danger.  Entragues,  who  was  concerned  with 
quite  other  matters  than  the  consoling  of  hysterical 
women,  stopped  the  carriage,  got  out  and  said : 

"A  bientot.     I  understand  you." 

She  smiled,  with  a  quick  toss  of  her  head.  The 
carriage  departed. 

"She  is  at  a  crisis,"  mused  Entragues.  "Some 
one  else  will  profit  by  it,  for  she  is  not  ugly  and 
should  have,  at  certain  moments,  a  sort  of  Maenad 
beauty.  But  I  love  Sixtine  and  feel  incapable  of 
loving  other  women.  But  why  is  it  that  so  many 
women  whom  you  pay  no  heed  to,  throw  them- 
selves at  you,  while  the  only  one  you  desire  shuns 
you  ?" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    FAUN 

"Sancte  pater,  sic  transit  gloria  mundi." 
Le  Pontifical  romain. 

NO  sooner  was  he  in  Sixtine's  presence  than 
Hubert  felt  his  pleasure  spoiled  by  the  ques- 
tionings which  an  algebraic  schema  had  laid  down 
but  had  not  solved.  So  his  will  to  act  weakened 
under  the  weight  of  the  present.  First  he  must  de- 
cipher the  puzzle. 

He  coldly  advanced,  with  a  calm  smile,  kissing 
the  hand  she  gave  him ;  this  contact  quieted  his  need 
of  knowledge.  Then,  he  asked  himself  whether  the 
interlaced  foliage  of  two  or  three  problems  would 
not  form  the  necessary  aureola  around  this  fair 
head. 

"And  when  I  should  reach  the  precise  explana- 
tions, would  I  have  added  more  beauty  to  this  body 
full  of  beauties?  As  for  the  soul,  I  know  that  it 
is  a  secret  coffer  to  which  no  one — not  even  she 
herself — has  the  key.  And  what  could  I  do  with  it, 
and  what  could  she  do  with  it?  So  my  anxiety  is 
quite  futile.  What  if  I  took  her  merely  with  plaus- 
ible words,  as  the  bird-call,  by  its  mechanical  song, 
captures  the  free  birds?" 

They  spoke  of  different  things,  particularly  of 
us 


n6  Very  Woman 

the  falling  leaves,  and  Hubert  skilfully  led,  under 
the  same  stimulus,  his  revery  and  the  conversa- 
tion. 

A  Ziem,  at  the  end  of  the  room,  cleverly  illum- 
inated by  hidden  lights,  a  resplendant  Italian  road- 
stead, with  purple-tinted  sails,  many  colored  clouds 
in  the  sky,  and  over  all  a  deep  transparency,  a  sense 
of  great  distance,  a  brilliancy  of  atmosphere  full  of 
the  magic  of  unfailing  blue : 

"Naples,  a  Naples  I  have  never  seen!  Ah!  that 
is  because  I  scarcely  look  towards  the  gulf,  for  the 
Novella  is  my  heaven  and  my  ocean." 

"Monsieur  d'Entragues,  why  have  you  such  a 
distracted  air?" 

This  brought  him  back  to  the  truth :  he  was  not 
Delia  Preda,  she  had  just  pronounced  his  correct 
name,  and  Naples  disappeared ;  after  a  few  minute's 
absence,  he  found  himself  in  Paris  again,  near 
Madame  Sixtine  Magne  and  before  a  quite  good 
view  of  Venice. 

"It  is  that  picture,"  continued  Sixtine.  "It 
pleases  me,  but  do  not  observe  it  too  closely,  for  you 
will  be  forced  to  admit  that  it  is  mediocre,  but 
charged  with  some  power  of  illusion  for  imagina- 
tive minds." 

While  cursory  words  were  being  exchanged  about 
painters  and  their  paintings,  there  reawakened  in 
Hubert,  without  any  determinable  cause,  one  of  the 
most  significant  impressions  of  his  adolescence. 
Feeling  the  impossibility  of  evading  it  and  fearing 
a  fit  of  abstractions,  he  repeated  it  aloud.  The  word 


The  Faun  117 

"madonna"  uttered  by  Sixtine  furnished  the  pre- 
text: 

"Summer  and  a  stormy  evening.  I  had  been 
restless  all  day;  sudden  languors  made  me  pros- 
trate ;  my  nerves  vibrated  like  harp-strings  with 
each  clap  of  thunder.  My  grandmother's  harp  rested 
in  a  corner  of  the  room  and  when  any  one  touched 
a  door,  it  echoed.  I  compared  myself  to  this 
mysterious  instrument  which  I  had  once  seen  out  of 
its  rose  silk  case.  I  listened  to  the  interior  murmur- 
ings  of  my  overexcited  life,  sounds  welled  within 
me,  made  me  ill,  and  slowly  went  to  a  death  of  which 
it  seemed  I  should  die.  Then  the  fears,  the  sweet 
fears  of  seeing,  among  the  branches,  a  strange 
woman  who  would  smile  to  me.  Then  the  indis- 
creet titillations  of  pubescence  which  passed,  played, 
breathed  like  a  warm  wind  upon  my  skin.  It 
was  vacation  time  in  the  country:  they  had  left 
me  to  my  own  devices  and  I  rolled  on  the  grass  and 
ate  it ;  I  cut  switches  and  shoots  and  instantly  aban- 
doned them ;  I  climbed  up  trees  and,  half  way,  let 
myself  slip  with  lax  muscles.  Obscene,  vaguely 
understood  couplets  returned  to  me.  Alexis  and 
Corydon  preoccupied  me  and  I  fancied  that  for  the 
first  time  I  understood  the  dim  ardors  of  the  poets. 
My  desires  were  altogether  formless.  I  had  still 
another  anguish :  what  was  this  malady  which 
gripped  me?  Life  would  not  be  endurable,  if  I 
had  to  live  thus.  The  night  quieted  me  somewhat. 
As  I  annoyed  everybody,  that  is  to  say  my  great- 
aunt  Sophie,  Aunt  Azelia,  an  old  maid,  and  the  two 


n8  Very  Woman 

house  cats,  dear  and  precious  creatures,  I  was  given 
pictures  to  look  at,  with  instructions  not  to  stir. 
They  belonged  to  different  parts  of  books  given  to 
quiet  noisy  children.  Suddenly,  as  I  was  reading, 
I  stopped,  having  found  my  childish  ideal :  the  Ma- 
donna de  Masolino  da  Panicale.  Later  in  life  I 
came  upon  that  name  under  a  quite  different  litho- 
graph, alas !  although  it  represented  the  same  pic- 
ture and  the  same  madonna.  I  felt  myself  grow 
pale  with  emotion  and  confusion.  The  half-opened 
eyes  gazed  on  me  tenderly  and  the  inflection  of  the 
head  was  so  coy  and  amorous  that  my  heart  pounded. 
But  the  eyes  soon  preoccupied  me  above  all  the 
rest:  I  made  a  rampart  of  one  of  the  leaves,  I  pre- 
tended to  read  attentively,  I  was  alone  with  the 
divine  eyes  and  gazed  upon  them.  An  hour  per- 
haps had  passed  in  this  way  but  it  seemed  that  I  had 
hardly  looked  at  them  when  the  inflexible  Azelia 
uttered  the  daily  phrase:  'The  curfew  has  rung.' 
Nothing  rang  in  the  house  with  its  very  old-fash- 
ioned clocks;  so  it  was  a  metaphor;  she  always 
repeated  it  and  I  usually  did  not  even  smile  at  its 
mention.  That  evening  I  flew  into  a  passion  and 
I  bantered  the  old  maid  so  much  that  she  sent  me 
to  bed  'without  a  candle,  as  cats  go  to  the  loft.' 
I  fell  asleep  and  slept  as  one  sleeps  at  thirteen,  but, 
in  the  night,  the  eyes  of  the  Madonna  visited  me  and 
I  have  since  felt  an  inexplicable  pleasure  when  gaz- 
ing upon  eyes  that  resemble  the  eyes  of  the  Ma- 
donna de  Masolino  da  Panicale." 

As  he  finished,  Entragues  perceived  that  Sixtine 


The  Faun  ng 

had  them,  the  very  eyes;  he  knelt  down  and  said: 
"That  is  why  I  love  you,  Sixtine,  and  why  I 
shall  always  love  you !" 

"Please,  rise  and  let  go  my  hands!" 
"Let  me  keep  them,  let  me  love  you.     Ah !  you 
are  not  indifferent,  it  is  not  possible." 

"But,"  returned  Sixtine,  "I  am  surprised  .  .  . 
You  tell  me  a  very  curious  and  interesting  anecdote 
to  which  I  listen  without  distrust,  and  it  ends  with 
a  declaration  ...  It  is  very  unexpected  .  .  .  Come, 
sit  down  and  let  us  talk  peacefully  ...  I  do  not 
wish  to  discourage  you,  and  I  really  want  to  be 
sincere  .  .  .  If  I  loved  you  I  would  say  so,  it  would 
even  be  a  fitting  occasion  .  .  .  Frankly,  I  have  not 
felt  that  little  emotion,  that  tiny  nothing  .  .  .  Then 
how  say  it,  I  am  very  inexperienced  ...  It  perhaps 
will  come  another  time.  Come,  you  will  recom- 
mence and  it  will  merely  be  a  deferred  pleasure.  .  . 
I  am  quite  willing  to  love  .  .  .  My  soul  yearns  for 
something  ...  It  may  be  won,  but  you  must  con- 
quer it  ...  How?  That  is  your  affair  .  .  .  And 
then,  you  know  that  if  I  loved  it  would  be  for 
eternity  .  .  .  There  can  be  no  casualness  where 
such  bonds  are  concerned.  It  is  necessary  to  know 
each  other,  to  estimate  each  other,  to  tell  something 
of  one's  past  life,  to  fathom  characters,  to  analyze 
tastes.  We  are  not  children  .  .  .  All  this  .  .  ." 

"Ah!  I  am  a  fool,"  Sixtine  was  saying  to  herself 
during  the  pauses  of  her  speech.  "But  I  do  not 
withdraw  my  hand,  I  only  seem  to  ...  So  stirred, 
I  would  not  wish  to  admit  how  delicious  it  has 


I2O  Very  Woman 

been  .  .  .  No,  it  is  an  avowal  .  .  .  Unexpected?  I 
was  waiting  for  it  and  would  have  been  pained  and 
surprised  had  it  not  come  ...  He  is  there,  at  my 
knees,  at  my  knees:  Oh!  remain  thus  ...  If  I 
were  he  I  should  speak  quite  differently,  but  I  like 
these  doubts,  these  supplications.  He  is  going  to 
implore  me  again,  again,  again  .  .  .  Do  I  love  him? 
I  am  able  to  love  him,  at  least  I  am  not  far  from 
it,  I  feel  that  a  certain  word,  a  certain  gesture  .  .  . 
and  I  would  be  in  his  arms,  but  will  he  say  the 
word?  Will  he  make  the  gesture?  ...  Oh!  yes! 
I  have  experienced  something  undefinable  .  .  .  Yes, 
but  I  am  not  at  such  a  point  of  ignorance  .  .  .  Can 
all  this  be  recovered,  such  moments?  .  .  .  Believe 
me,  it  is  true,  true,  true,  I  want  to  love  .  .  .  Well, 
take  it,  but  be  sure  to  take  it.  The  word  is  too 
hard.  My  God,  perhaps  I  am  discouraging  him. 
So  much  the  worse,  it  will  be  the  test  .  .  .  Oh !  to 
be  fixed,  to  be  bound  forever !  To  him  ?  I  do  not 
know,  but  if  he  wished  it!  .  .  .  He  is  quite  proper, 
but  a  little  cold,  and  then,  I  already  know  him;  he 
is  capable  of  a  profound  sentiment  .  .  .  What!  he 
is  rising,  he  abandons  my  hand,  he  goes  to  sit  down 
on  that  chair,  so  far,  so  far  from  me  ...  Well,  it 
is  finished,  and  I  am  deceived.  Let  us  wait." 

"I  believe  I  was  wrong,"  replied  Entragues,  "to 
let  you  speak  so  long.  You  have  recovered  pos- 
session of  your  natural  calm  and  now  you  are  unat- 
tainable." 

"I  also  think  so,"  said  Sixtine,  wounded  by  this 
clumsy  reply.  "But  I  can  assure  you  that  I  do  not 


The  Faun  121 

lose  my  head  so  easily.  I  have  resisted  more  dan- 
gerous assaults  and  my  virtue  came  out  of  them  all 
untouched.  If  you  expected  to  conquer  me  by 
surprise,  you  deceived  yourself.  Very  strong  mus- 
cles might  succeed,  perhaps,  but  the  conquest  would 
be  quite  precarious." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Madame,  I  love  you  too 
sincerely  to  count  on  the  occasion  and  a  mere  physical 
possession,  gained  through  the  strength  of  one  or 
the  lassitude  of  the  other.  This  is  not  at  all  my 
purpose.  I  wished  only  to  obtain  an  avowal  in  re- 
turn for  an  avowal  .  .  ." 

"There  are  mute  women,"  Sixtine  interrupted. 

Entragues  did  not  pursue  the  matter  further.  He 
contemplated  the  magnificent  eyes  which  anxiously 
watched  him,  and  he  wondered  how  he  could  make 
them  tender,  how  make  them  speak,  for  eyes  speak 
without  knowing  that  they  do  so,  and  are  not  mas- 
ters of  their  language,  like  lips.  Finally  he  an- 
swered, with  the  bitterness  of  deception : 

"It  is  necessary  to  lose  one's  head." 

"It  is  necessary,  it  is  necessary :  that  is  easily  said. 
If  he  who  proffers  this  aphorism  first  lost  his  head, 
it  would  be  a  different  matter.  Be  indulgent  to  a 
very  banal  allusion :  Whoever  wishes  to  make 
others  weep  must  be  the  first  to  weep." 

"There  are  rebels  and  the  spirit  of  contradiction 
makes  great  ravages  in  proud  souls." 

"I  confess  to  a  little  pride.  Without  it  there 
would  be  no  dignity,  but  am  I  moved  by  the  spirit 
of  contradiction?  I  do  not  think  so.  If  it  were 


122  Very  Woman 

given  you  to  penetrate  into  my  inmost  recesses,  you 
would  see,  on  the  other  hand,  an  infinitely  malleable 
soul,  a  soul  without  definite  form — a  lump  of  clay 
which  awaits  the  divine  shaper;  a  woman's  soul,  in 
fine.  But  men  judge  women  as  inferior  men;  just 
as  men,  to  women,  generally  are  other  women  armed 
with  superior  strength.  In  truth,  they  are  two  be- 
ings as  distinct  as  a  dog  and  a  cat,  and  it  is  always 
their  unhappy  fate  not  to  understand  one  another, 
just  like  a  dog  and  cat.  What  a  distressing  fatality, 
for  one  only  exists  through  the  other.  Are  they, 
perhaps,  truly  complete  beings  only  in  the  fleeting 
moment  when  they  are  joined  together?  But  it 
should  be  the  labor  of  civilization  and  intelligence 
to  perpetuate  that  moment  by  spiritual  bonds,  strong 
and  supple  ties  whose  physical  meetings  would  be 
the  consolidating  knots.  No,  there  is  nothing  more 
than  actual  desire  and  when  that  has  fled,  unassuaged, 
and  one  is  well-bred,  one  has  recourse  to  irony." 

"It  is  a  consolation,"  Entragues  replied,  "but 
I  am  refused  it.  I  have  never  had  enough  presence 
of  mind  to  juggle  with  my  chagrin  and  divert  my- 
self by  letting  my  eye  follow  the  play  of  glass  balls. 
Is  my  nature,  perhaps,  excessively  complicated? 
Sincerity,  like  a  diamond,  has  more  than  one 
facet  .  .  ." 

"Then,"  Sixtine  interrupted,  "it  is  a  decomposed 
sincerity.  Labor  is  needed  to  assist  it  to  the  state 
of  pure  light  and  all  this  psychological  physics  is 
too  difficult  a  maneuver  for  my  simplicity.  If  you 
only  knew  how  simple  I  am,  how  simple  all  women 


The  Faun  123 

are,  dreadfully  simple,  my  friend!  In  truth,  one 
has  but  to  take  them  by  the  hand !" 

"Like  the  woman  of  a  little  while  ago,"  Entragues 
thought.  "Those  whom  one  supposes  strange  are 
only  more  feminine  women,  thrust  by  their  nerves 
to  the  extreme  of  feminity.  It  is  true:  to  dominate 
the  others,  one  must  study  them  specially.  Did  not 
Ribot  find  the  laws  of  memory  and  will  in  mental 
pathology?  It  would  be  excellent  to  make  analo- 
gous studies  of  hysteria,  but  if  the  matter  does  not 
attempt  it,  who  is  capable  of  doing  it?  After  all, 
the  very  subjects  of  the  experiment  have  today  given 
me  two  valuable  lessons.  Unfortunately,  it  is  to 
be  feared  that  they  will  avail  me  little  in  practical 
life.  I  am  in  a  mood  to  live  and  I  do  not  know 
how.  Come,  I  will  provoke  her  a  little  and  guide 
myself  by  her  replies.  Women  may  be  simple,  but 
they  appear  artful  and  we  can  only  act  in  their 
presence  according  to  received  impressions.  Simple 
as  a  deciphered  dispatch,  simple  when  you  have  the 
key.  What  was  she  saying  to  me  ?  I  must  answer. 
She  is  looking  at  me.  Those  beautiful  large  eyes! 
Ah!  I  truly  love  her !" 

"Have  me!"  he  exclaimed,  falling  on  his  knees. 
"I  love  you,  I  can  say  no  more." 

Her  restless  studded  fingers  clasped  her  knees  that 
were  covered  with  a  red  robe.  Hubert  embraced 
the  knees  and  kissed  the  fingers.  It  was  the  same 
as  happens  with  little  serpents  in  skins  of  old  silver 
found  under  withered  ferns,  in  the  sunlight;  as 
soon  as  one  touches  them,  they  stiffen  and  become 


124  Very  Woman 

as  brittle  as  glass.  Sixtine,  at  this  brusque  con- 
tact, grew  rigid  as  a  lady  of  stone  in  her  emblaz- 
oned seat,  and  Hubert  felt  that  the  least  insistence 
would  shatter  that  soul.  It  was  too  late.  As  Six- 
tine  had  so  well  conjectured,  the  startled  occasion 
had  fled.  The  very  woman  who,  an  instant  before, 
— something  Hubert  did  not  suspect — would  have 
surrendered  for  the  present  and  for  eternity  to  the 
first  kiss,  this  same  woman  resented  a  new  attempt 
at  intimacy  as  an  attempt  at  violation. 

He  obeyed  and  rose,  but  this  time  with  more  anger 
than  embarrassment,  for  physical  desire  held  him 
in  its  iron  grip.  Its  nostrils  held  tight  by  a  sub- 
duing apparatus,  the  bull  occasionally  resists  under 
the  stress  of  its  anguish,  routs  its  tormentor  and 
rears  itself,  ready  for  vain  accomplishments. 

Before  leaving,  restraining  his  brutal  unchained 
forces  by  a  violent  effort  of  will,  he  endeavored  to  re- 
assure Sixtine  by  a  playful  amiability.  Without 
returning  to  sow  foolish  explanations  along  the  path 
he  had  traveled  and  which  a  wall,  suddenly  up- 
sprung,  had  confined,  he  smoothly  indulged  in  meta- 
phors and  generalities  upon  love,  made  a  dusky 
poetry  gleam,  paused  at  the  scintillations  of  lyrical 
enthusiasm  and  succeeded  in  making  the  young  un- 
easy woman  smile,  amused  and  perhaps  moved  by 
his  good  will. 

He  really  felt  that  this  evening  had  been  some- 
what unfortunate,  but  despair  did  not  touch  him. 
In  short,  nothing  is  irreparable.  Then,  too,  he  had 
acted  and  he  believed  that  this  was  a  great  point. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  CARNAL  HOUR 

"And  a  thousand  others,  who  never  knew 
what  it  was  to  have  a  soul  .  .  .  ;  yet,  sir, 
these  men  adorned  society." 

Poe:  Bon-Bon. 

ONCE  in  the  street,  Hubert  saw  the  ardent  eyes 
of  an  invisible  spectre  glaring  at  him  through 
the  gloom — two  terrible,  imperious  and  inciting  eyes. 
He  recognized  them  and  an  oppressiveness  crushed 
him.  They  were  the  eyes  of  Lust. 

"For  women,  the  prowling  phantom  is  called 
Sin — it  is  a  male;  for  men  it  is  the  female  Lust. 
Ah!  yes,  I  recognize  her.  She  is  a  companion  of 
childhood.  She  is  ingenious.  She  used  to  strum 
ballads  to  the  moon  on  my  adolescent  nerves.  To- 
day, she  drums  the  roundelay  of  the  Lupanars  on 
the  back  of  my  neck.  With  one  stroke  she  wishes 
to  degrade  the  lover  and  the  love.  I  will  betake 
myself  to  vile  titillations  and  she  whom  I  love  will 
be  the  cause." 

He  reflected:  a  voluptuous  dream  brought  on, 
from  earliest  adolescence,  by  the  contemplation  of 
the  madonna's  eyes ;  since  that  time,  the  association 
had  been  constant,  often  inexorable :  he  had  to  obey 
or  suffer  absolute  insomnia,  or  else  race  like  a 
125 


126  Very  Woman 

noctambulist  towards  a  retreating  prey.  In  the 
last  case,  the  winning  talks  at  street  corners  little 
by  little  dissolved  desire  in  the  slow  fire  of  disgust. 
But  how  terrible  these  nights  when  the  shame  of 
his  obscene  vagabondage  overwhelmed  him  with 
horror ! 

Yet  he  did  not  want  to  go  and  knock,  like  an 
obsessed  bourgeois,  like  clerks  on  paydays,  at  the 
latticed  door  of  some  sordid  house,  leading  his 
idealism  to  promiscuous  divans  and  submitting  his 
body  to  the  least  withered  bidder!  He  hesitated 
between  a  quite  proper  harem  nearby,  and  the  sem- 
blances of  soothing  intrigue:  he  did  not  despise  a 
reciprocal  choice  that  had  the  appearance  of  being 
voluntary,  the  excuse  of  a  desire  that  fixed  on  this 
one  rather  than  on  the  other,  public  preliminaries 
which  are  cleansed  of  all  shame  by  the  complicity  of 
the  environment — the  Bal  Bullier,  for  example,  or 
the  Folies-Bergere.  By  making  a  rapid  decision 
and  calling  a  carriage,  he  could  reach  one  of  those 
slave  markets  before  closing  time.  Upon  reflection, 
he  abandoned  the  Bullier:  the  jades  of  this  place 
were  enjoying  a  rest.  As  for  the  other  exhibition, 
it  was  quite  far  away. 

Undecided,  he  grew  composed.  For  a  moment 
he  hoped  to  have  freed  himself  cheaply,  but  the  eyes, 
the  implacable  eyes  reappeared — obscene  stars  that 
would  cease  and  vanish  only  at  the  clandestine 
house. 

It  was  in  a  little  street  near  the  Saint-Sulpice 
market 


The  Carnal  Hour  127 

There,  lived  a  woman  whose  eyes,  adequate  for 
his  youthful  dreams,  had  formerly  captivated  him — 
formerly,  when  he  was  about  twenty — and  no  rea- 
soned disgust  dulled  the  senses.  Each  time  his 
carnal  obsessions  evoked  this  pleasant  memory  he 
believed,  with  an  animal  waywardness,  that  he  would 
find  the  same  woman  and  the  same  contentment. 

Since  she  did  not  surrender  to  the  first  importu- 
nate caller,  having  the  coquetry  of  a  certain  amorous 
fastidiousness,  one  often  found  her  either  alone  or 
able,  under  the  pretext  of  a  jealous  protector,  to 
turn  out  the  guest  of  the  evening,  if  the  newcomer 
pleased  her  more. 

"So  this,"  reflected  Entragues,  "is  the  end? 
Honest  women  know  quite  well  to  what  promiscui- 
ties they  are  exposed  by  their  refusals;  they  should 
yield  for  the  sake  of  dignity,  at  least.  They  should 
be  taught  this :  it  would  be  one  of  the  useful  chapters 
in  the  courses  of  love  which  old  women  could  teach 
so  well!  But  if  they  should  yield,  then  farewell 
to  the  pleasant  duels  of  vanity." 

Without  suspecting  how  futile  and  mischievous 
his  reflections  were,  he  followed  the  star. 

"Now  then,  what  is  going  to  happen?  Oh!  I 
know  in  advance.  None  the  less,  I  am  going  in !" 

He  knocked  in  a  certain  way. 

"To  think  that  I  remember  all  this!  Yet  it  is 
long  since  I  came  here.  I  have  been  spared  these 
sudden  and  irremissible  tortures  for  years.  Years ! 
She  must  be  changed,  old  and  ugly.  All  the  better, 
it  will  be  the  necessary  douche,  and  perhaps  in  a 


128  Very  Woman 

half -hour  I  shall  be  laughing  at  myself  instead  of 
crying.  Perhaps  she  will  be  absent,  or  asleep,  or 
engaged.  Engaged !  Like  a  school  boy,  I  have  a 
mind  to  run  away  before  the  door  opens.  One, 
two  .  .  .  I  am  going  to  leave." 

No,  he  knocked  a  second  time. 

"Who  is  it?" 


"Toi!" 

"She  addresses  me  so  familiarly,  it  is  frightful." 


"Yours  forever!" 

"Again!  After  all,  I  please  her.  It  is  less  vile 
than  indifference." 

"Now,  whisperings  reached  him,  interrupted  by 
the  opening  and  closing  of  doors.  He  had  the 
sensation  of  conversations  of  nuns  coming  through 
a  wooden  partition.  This  sordid  place  had  the 
mysteries  of  a  convent;  the  approach  of  women  and 
their  movements  always  give  man  similar  impres- 
sions, different  though  the  surroundings  be.  She 
was  debating  with  somebody ;  at  last  the  bolt  was  un- 
fastened, the  key  turned :  another  wait,  but  shorter, 
in  a  dark  antechamber :  the  sounds  of  a  second  out- 
side door,  of  steps  descending  the  stairs:  he  had  left. 

She  was  dressed,  a  hat  on  her  head,  and  gloved. 

"Anyway,  she  has  not  just  come  from  some  one 
else's  arms." 

She  had  not  aged.  She  was  a  warmly-blown  sum- 
mer which  the  breath  of  mutual  happy  moments 


The  Carnal  Hour  129 

had  not  withered.  Women  can  withstand  anything ; 
neither  vigils,  nor  fastings,  nor  repeated  surrenders 
blight  them;  quite  the  contrary,  in  order  to  bloom, 
they  cannot  have  too  much  care. 

She  showed  her  joy  in  little  exclamations  and 
tiny  unruly  words;  Entragues  thought  it  just  as  well 
to  seize  the  present  hour  and  attempt  an  amiable 
libertinism. 

She  thought  him  handsome  and  made  for  kisses; 
he  let  her  go  on,  rather  content  with  this  impression 
and  conscious  of  giving  this  woman,  who  was  su- 
perior to  her  companions,  a  moment  of  sincere 
pleasure. 

"These  women,  after  all,"  he  thought,  "are  not  so 
repulsive  as  the  adulterous  ones ;  they  lack,  it  is  true, 
the  aureole  of  deceit,  but  they  are  neither  more  nor 
less  guilty:  what  is  the  difference  between  having 
two  men  at  the  same  time,  and  having  ten?  With 
the  second,  vice  commences;  and  if  the  latter  must 
be  scorned,  the  same  scorn  should  be  meted  out  to 
the  former.  Doubtless,  since  they  are  transgressing 
a  stricter  law  and  breaking  a  definitive  vow,  the 
adulteresses  should  enjoy  a  keener  abandon,  for 
hell-fire  is  already  present  in  their  kisses,  if  they 
have  been  favored  with  a  Christian  education;  but 
how  many  of  them  are  capable  of  so  exquisite  an 
enjoyment,  of  savoring  in  love  the  irremediable  dam- 
nation incurred  for  the  pleasure  of  him  they  love? 
One  must  grant  them  another  possible  superiority — 
that  is,  if  there  are  children — for  while  the  offspring 


130  Very  Woman 

of  the  unmarried  have  no  father,  adulterous  off- 
spring have  two,  a  wise  precaution  against  orphan- 
hood." 

Meanwhile,  Valentine  had  brought  cakes  and  a 
bottle  of  that  Aumalian  wine  which  gives  people  the 
illusion  of  a  princely  treat.  Then  she  grew  tender 
towards  Entragues,  her  eyes  beamed  forth  cajolery, 
allurement,  and  promises. 

She  watched  him  dip  his  lips  into  the  glass  and 
wanted  to  drink  after  him,  seemingly  intoxicated 
with  desire  and  genuine  love,  consoling  herself  in 
one  evening,  with  this  unexpected  pilgrim,  for  some 
years  perhaps,  of  exactions  in  which  she  took  no 
pleasure. 

A  blasphemous  comparison  had  made  him  liken 
her  to  a  Magdalene  suddenly  seized  with  adoration, 
her  soul  just  surrendered  to  a  revealed  God,  lovely 
with  inner  and  useless  supplications,  so  persuaded  to 
love  above  herself  that  a  gesture  of  acquiescence 
would  overwhelm  her  with  joy. 

This  quite  surprising  spectacle  charmed  Entra- 
gues, but  he  felt  his  fault  aggravated  by  this  pro- 
longed titillation.  It  had  ceased  to  be  the  simple 
shock  necessary  to  re-establish  his  composure,  and 
had  inexcusably  become  a  pleasure  in  itself. 

She  kissed  his  hand  prettily,  the  last  traces  of  re- 
morse fled — their  emotions  became  identical. 

They  talked  of  trifles  and  he,  employing  those 
bagatelles  which  please  women,  made  her  laugh : 
she  seemed,  at  times,  astonished  at  her  own  delight, 


The  Carnal  Hour  131 

as  if  the  cold  air  around  her  had  suddenly  and 
magically  evaporated  in  effervescent  perfumes. 

The  weak  and  ravaged  Entragues  seemed  beau- 
tiful to  her:  blond  hair,  thinner  and  whiter  at  the 
temples,  beard  becoming  a  brown  at  the  cheeks  and 
ending  in  two  long  points  as  in  old  Venetian  por- 
traits ;  the  brow  high,  the  skin  very  pale  but  rosy 
in  moments  of  animation,  a  curveless  nose,  a  heavy 
mouth,  eyelashes  and  eyebrows  almost  black  over 
eyes  gilded  like  certain  feline  eyes,  but  gentle.  He 
had  ordinary  muscles  and  frame,  carried  his  head 
erect,  and  seemed  to  be  gazing  at  mirages,  his  eyes 
at  once  distant  and  steady,  as  if  in  a  trance. 

Valentine  chiefly  watched  his  lips.  He  per- 
ceived the  fact  and  gave  them.  She  was  neither 
powdered  nor  painted,  but  her  authentic  self. 

Entragues  gazed  at  her  with  pleasure  but  without 
agitation,  for  the  nude,  especially  in  a  woman's 
chamber,  is  not  particularly  sensuous;  it  is  such  a 
natural  state,  so  simple,  so  free  of  provocation,  so 
little  suggestive  by  its  absence  of  mystery,  that  a 
foot  glimpsed  in  the  street,  a  bodice  cleverly 
arranged,  a  rustling  of  petticoats,  an  ungloved  hand, 
a  smile  behind  a  fan,  a  certain  air,  a  certain  gesture, 
a  certain  glance,  even  with  a  wholly  chaste  inten- 
tion, are  much  more  rousing.  A  quite  banal  ob- 
servation, but  Entragues,  pardonable  in  pausing  to 
note  it  as  a  directly  experienced  impression,  still 
sought  to  fathom  its  cause. 

Now,  he  experienced  a  great  discouragement:  "I 


132  Very  Woman 

shall  not  have  this  beauty  which  pleases  me,  which 
I  desire  and  which  is  mine.  I  can  take  her  in  my 
arms,  I  can  press  her  against  me,  but  I  cannot  have 
her.  When  I  kiss  her  with  as  many  kisses  as  deceit 
has  tongues,  still  I  shall  not  have  her.  And  all  the 
kinds  of  possession  I  can  dream  of  are  vain;  even 
were  I  able  to  surround  her  like  a  wave,  I  should 
still  not  have  her.  The  impulsion  of  love  is  unreal 
and  it  is  only  the  illusion  of  desire  which  makes 
me  believe  in  its  possible  accomplishment.  I  know 
it  is  error,  I  know  that  disillusion  awaits  me.  I 
shall  be  punished  by  a  frightful  disappointment  for 
having  sought  self-oblivion  outside  of  myself,  for 
having  betrayed  idealism,  and  yet  it  is  unavoidable, 
for  the  senses  are  imperative  and  I  have  not  merited 
the  supernatural  gift  of  grace." 

Entragues  had  a  prompter  disillusion  than  he 
would  have  desired. 

The  adorable  woman  surrendered  to  his  kisses; 
the  carnal  dream  made  them  unconscious  of  good 
and  evil ;  they  advanced,  eagerly  and  with  swimming 
heads,  ready  to  place  their  feet  on  the  bark  that 
sails  towards  the  Isle  of  Delights,  seeking  to  ascer- 
tain how  the  sails  were  shifting  and  the  condition 
of  the  rudder.  Entragues  suddenly  got  up,  pale; 
ghostly  behind  the  window  curtains,  terrible  in  her 
red  robe,  Sixtine  had  revealed  herself. 

"Ah!"  he  vaguely  thought,  terrified,  but  his  own 
self  again,  "this  is  reality.  The  illusions  are 
reaped,  the  hay  is  brought  in,  the  field  is  bare.  This 
had  to  happen.  The  images  which  one  voluntarily 


The  Carnal  Hour  133 

evokes  come  to  acquire  mischievous  habits  and 
evoke  themselves  independently.  This  one  is  impa- 
tient. So  much  the  worse  lor  her ;  I  did  not  invite 
her." 

The  bed  curtains  had  to  be  closed  and  the  lights 
put  out.  Sixtine  spared  them  by  not  moving  and 
by  disdaining  the  stratagem  of  phosphorescence. 

The  candles,  when  after  a  while  they  were  lit 
again,  showed  Entragues  an  empty  room:  Sixtine 
had  departed.  But  departed  also  where  the  desires 
and  all  the  unacknowledged  pleasure  of  a  delight- 
ful night  of  debauchery. 

He  dared  not  go  out,  fearing  a  solitude  that  might 
be  peopled  against  his  will.  To  fatigue  the  body  is 
to  fatigue  the  intelligence:  he  had  enfeebled  him- 
self as  a  person  stupifies  himself  with  laudanum. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   IDEAL    BEES 

"Afin  de  reduire  le  Ternaire,  par  le  moyen 

du  Quaternaire,  a  la  simplicity  de  1'unite." 

Le  R.  P.  Esprit  Sabathier,  I'Ombre 

ideate  de  la  sagesse  wi'wersdle. 

"AH!  yes,"  mused  Hubert,  as  he  replaced  the 
±^\^  book  in  the  corner  restricted  to  philos- 
ophers, "the  pages  of  Ribot's  positive  and  disen- 
chanting psychology  make  good  reading  at  a  mo- 
ment, not  of  spleen,  but  of  stark  boredom.  This 
penetrating  dialectician  clearly  proves  to  me  that 
my  personality  is  a  fragile  chord  which  a  single 
false  note  in  the  keyboard  can  destroy.  It  is  all 
the  same  to  me:  a  madness  caused  by  a  fixed  idea 
must  greatly  assist  in  supporting  life.  Thus,  col- 
lectors are  to  be  envied,  those  who  gather  and 
classify  old  copper  buttons,  or  old  secret  locks,  or 
all  that  has  been  written  against  women,  or  the 
figurines  of  Sevres  porcelain,  or  the  articles  of  M. 
Lemaitre,  or  the  slippers  of  historic  balls.  One 
need  not  be  fastidious  in  choosing  a  mania :  to  be 
good  it  has  only  to  be  inexhaustible.  As  for  the 
more  distinguished  follies,  many  excellent  ones  can 
be  noted  and,  in  general,  none  of  those  which  are 
termed  mild  manias  should  be  scorned :  the  people 

134 


The  Ideal  Bees  135 

once  knew  this  well,  for  they  respected,  in  the  per- 
sons of  fools,  the  state  of  mind  never  attained  by 
men  of  sense :  happiness." 

He  continued  thus  for  a  long  time,  stretched 
back  on  his  armchair,  smoking  cigarettes,  wearied 
from  his  night  and  still  enfeebled  by  a  protracted 
bath.  At  bottom,  he  was  deeply  ashamed  of  him- 
self, as  after  every  similar  defilement,  and  not  at 
all  reassured  as  to  the  metaphysical  consequences 
of  this  sin.  No  reasoning,  brutal  though  his  un- 
belief might  be,  could  efface  such  an  impression. 
The  being  endowed  with  human  intelligence  and 
will  always  regulates  himself  by  some  rule,  a  mental 
guide  that  is  often  unconscious,  but  whose  exist- 
ence is  immediately  and  with  certitude  revealed  by 
the  transgression.  There  is  no  common  moral 
conscience  outside  of  a  religion  that  is  strict  and 
observed  in  all  its  commandments,  the  laws  of 
society,  and  the  special  regulations  belonging  to  a 
certain  group  :  morality  is  a  personal  talent.  Thus, 
Entragues  felt  himself  soiled  by  an  immersion  in 
pleasure  where  others  would  still  have  enjoyed,  even 
repletion,  the  gratification  of  a  ruminant. 

Moreover,  he  was  not  impious:  having  seen 
remorse  rear  its  head  before  him,  now  that  the 
hour  of  the  bravado  had  passed,  he  trembled  at  the 
memory  of  the  reproachful  phantom.  That  night 
cut  a  phase  of  his  life  in  two,  and  he  saw  himself 
equal  to  those  whom  physical  existence  confines  be- 
neath its  claws :  brother  of  the  first  comer  and 
thrown  back  among  the  vulgar  elements,  he  ceased 


136  Very  Woman 

to  be  himself.  Ah !  he  had  judged !  Now  he  could 
be  judged. 

In  this  state  of  mind,  nothing  could  interest  him; 
since  the  principle  of  all  interest  vanished.  Opium- 
like  dreams  benumbed  him  and  all  the  texts  on  the 
vanity  of  things  which  he  had  gathered  here  and 
there  in  his  readings,  played  under  his  skull,  like 
the  bell  of  a  rattle. 

Love,  strangled  by  his  hand,  barred  his  path :  to 
advance,  it  was  necessary  to  leap  over  the  dead  thing : 
no!  he  would  remain  on  this  side,  unless  a  miracu- 
lous and  quite  questionable  resurrection  occurred. 

Glory !  the  bell  has  been  melted  so  that  little  bells 
could  be  made.  And  as  for  the  brass  of  the  bells, 
does  one  ever  know  the  right  of  the  metal  to  the 
claim?  One  dies  and  the  cracked  sounds  make  the 
bell-ringers  laugh. 

He  recited  the  proud  and  yet  disheartening  verses 
of  old  Dante : 

La  mondaine  rumeur  n'est  rien  qu'un  souffle 
De  vent  qui  vient  d'ici,  qui  vient  de  la, 
Et,  changeant  d'aire,  change  aussi  de  nom. 

Having  put  these  three  lines  in  French  syllables, 
Hubert  observed  how  difficult  it  was  to  clothe  Dante 
in  a  fitting  foreign  garb.  He  pardoned  the  well- 
intentioned  persons  who  had  attempted  it  in  scandal- 
ous translations:  one  could  do  no  better  than  to 
adopt  an  exact,  if  disfiguring,  metaphor:  the  pre- 
cision of  the  original  becomes  loose,  its  clearness 
shadowy,  for  it  is  necessary  to  employ  certain  short 
words  whose  true  sense  is  lost,  and  others  which  are 


The  Ideal  Bees  137 

no  longer  read  except  in  glossaries.  Finally,  he 
laid  down  this  aphorism:  it  is  impossible  to  trans- 
late into  an  old  and  refined  language  a  work  belong- 
ing to  the  youth  of  a  kindred  language. 

These  technical  notations,  the  reading  of  some 
verse,  trips  from  his  table  to  his  library,  had  some- 
what revived  him.  Although  he  felt  that  the  de- 
pression might  last  all  day  and  doubtless  many  more 
days,  he  recovered  courage  and  believed  himself  fit 
for  some  light  work.  Hubert  was  not  a  poet,  no 
more  than  many  others  who  pretend  to  the  poetic 
gift.  His  impressions  translated  themselves  into 
little  notes  of  analytical  prose,  not  into  fixed  and 
exact  rhythms;  but  he  had  learned  the  craft,  knew 
the  most  modern  secrets  of  versification,  and  in 
happy  hours  could,  without  illusion,  fabricate  an 
interesting  piece  according  to  the  rules. 

This  morning,  he  succeeded  in  giving  the  final 
details  to  a  diptych  whose  appearance  had  hereto- 
fore not  satisfied  him.  It  was  heavy  and  the  ham- 
mer beat  had  shaped  it,  directed  by  a  hand  that  was 
more  strong  than  adroit,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  metal  was  good  and  without  cracks. 

MORITURA 

Dans  la  serre  torride,  une  plante  exotique 
Penchante,  resignee:  eclos  hors  de  saison 
Deux  boutons  flechissaient,  1'air  grave  et  mystique; 
La  seve  n'etait  plus  pour  elle  qu'un  poison. 

Et  je  sentais  pourtant  de  la  fleur  accablee 
S'evaporer  1'effluve  acre  d'un  parfum  lourd, 
Mes  arteres  battaient,  ma  poitrine  troublee 
Haletait,  mon  regard  se  voilait,  j'etais  sourd 


138  Very  Woman 

Dans  la  chambre,  autre  fleur,  une  femme  tres  pale, 
Les  mains  lasses,  la  tete  appuyee  aux  coussins: 
Elle  s'abandonnait :  un  insensible  rale 
Soulevait  tristement  la  langueur  de  ses  seins. 

Mais  ses  cheveux  tombant  en  innombrables  boucles 
Ondulaient  sinueax  comme  un  large  flot  noir 
Et  ses  grands  yeux  brillaient  du  feu  des  escarboucles 
Comme  un  double  fanal  dans  la  brume  du  soir. 

Les  cheveux  m'envoyaient  des  odeurs  enervantes, 

Pareilles  a  Tether  qu'aspire  un  patient, 

Je  perdais  peu  a  peu  de  mes  forces  vivantes 

Et  les  yeux  transperc,aient  mon  coeur  inconscient. 

The  afternoon  vanished,  a  very  calm  night  con- 
quered, he  found  himself  astonished  at  the  sudden 
return  of  vigor  and  of  capacity  for  work.  Three 
days  after,  he  had  completed  "Peacock  Plumes"  and 
"The  Twenty-Eighth  of  December;"  he  reread 
.them,  not  without  suffering  from  a  sense  of  inmost 
shame,  for  although  the  conception  of  this  last  study 
was  anterior  to  the  luckless  night,  he  had  not  been 
able,  so  identically  did  the  situations  present  them- 
selves, to  develop  his  old  idea  except  by  borrowing 
from  his  recent  adventure. 

It  had  often  happened  to  him  that  his  revery  inter- 
vened in  the  active  series  and  broke  its  determina- 
tion; such  a  result,  certainly,  no  longer  filled  him 
with  childish  astonishments,  but  this  time  there  was 
a  truly  marvelous  subordination  of  the  fact  to  the 
idea.  This  was  the  theme:  faithless  to  a  beloved 
Dead,  A  desires  another  woman,  who  yields  and 
gives  herself  to  him;  but,  at  the  moment  of  posses- 
sion, the  beloved  Dead  woman  appears  to  him,  in 


The  Ideal  Bees  139 

certain  conditions  to  be  developed,  and  the  old  love 
vanquishes  the  new.  This  outline,  with  some  linear 
modifications,  could  symbolically  have  character- 
ized the  unexpected  events  of  his  night  with  Valen- 
tine. Presentiment  and  coincidence  did  not  explain 
such  an  occurrence  and,  moreover,  such  an  occur- 
rence was  the  hundredth  he  had  observed.  Hence 
the  conception  of  a  possible  event  had  brought  it 
into  his  life,  conditioned  by  the  intervention  of  an 
external  will,  adapted  to  the  vital  limits  of  time  and 
space,  but  recognizable  in  its  constituent  and  original 
elements.  It  was  worth  reflecting  upon :  it  was 
a  whole  corner  of  the  yet  unknown  psychology,  a 
whole  order  of  phenomena  as  curious,  for  example, 
as  the  fact  of  suggestion  so  bungled  by  official  hyp- 
notizers,  who  lack  philosophic  understanding.  This 
could  even  be  classed  under  the  chapter  of  sugges- 
tions; but  if,  in  things  of  this  kind,  one  knew  the 
suggester,  the  person  to  whom  a  thing  was  sug- 
gested would  escape.  Nor  was  it  a  matter  of  a 
will  dimly  or  even  unconsciously  domineered  by 
another  will ;  there  was  rather,  as  a  point  of  depar- 
ture, a  will  seeking  to  bring  about  the  wholly  ideal 
and  wholly  subjective  accomplishment  of  a  thing. 
But  how  could  this  will  act  upon  the  immutable 
order  of  things?  Since  the  suggester  found  him- 
self, in  the  case  of  the  person  subject  to  his  will,  in 
the  second  state,  was  it  not  merely  a  case  of  auto- 
suggestion ?  Then,  too,  it  was  necessary  to  explain 
how  the  subjected  person  could  bring  over,  into  his 
orb,  wills  and  facts  external  to  himself  and  how, 


140  Very  Woman 

in  sustaining  an  order  suggested  by  his  mental  ac- 
tivity, he  could  make  it  submit  to  all  its  relation- 
ships of  things  and  beings.  Idealism  unveiled  these 
dim  arcana  for  him.  Assuredly  the  thinking  per- 
son dominates  those  who  do  not  think,  and  the  man 
who  wills,  though  unwittingly,  the  realization, 
though  ideal,  of  a  group  of  facts,  dominates  all 
wills  which,  unwarned,  are  not  on  guard,  rinding 
themselves  unprepared  to  oppose  will  with  will. 
The  material  and  unconscious  world  lives  and  moves 
only  in  the  intelligence  which  perceives  and  re- 
creates it  anew  according  to  personal  forms ;  there 
is  as  much  of  the  thinking  world  as  a  superior 
intelligence  unites  and  fashions  to  his  wish.  The 
conflict  is  only  among  superiorities,  and  the  rest, 
the  herd,  follows  the  masters,  willy-nilly :  ah !  revolt 
is  quite  useless. 

Entragues  consequently  found  himself  arrived  at 
that  point  of  intellectuality  where  one  commences 
to  make  himself  obeyed:  order,  apparently  incoer- 
cible,  yielded  to  his  dream.  It  was  now  a  question 
of  mastering  the  dream  and  will.  This  was  quite 
different:  never  having  cultivated  that  faculty,  he 
only  possessed  it  to  a  rudimentary  degree.  The 
method  was  clear,  he  should  have  known  how  to 
make  use  of  it;  he  could  not  and  the  world,  without 
a  doubt,  would  escape  him.  His  regret  was  moder- 
ate: his  desires  did  not  exceed  potentiality.  The 
ideal  world,  as  he  held  it,  sufficed  for  his  activity 
which  was  entirely  mental  and  too  unarmed  for  the 
struggle. 


The  Ideal  Bees  141 

He  had  chosen  the  best  part:  should  he  be  mad 
enough  to  consent  to  a  disastrous  exchange?  Ev- 
erything belonged  to  him  in  the  sphere  where  he 
revolved:  under  logic's  eye,  he  was  the  absolute 
master  of  a  transcendent  reality  whose  joyous 
domination  did  not  give  him  leisure  for  a  vulgar 
life  and  human  preoccupations.  To  will?  To  will 
what?  Ah!  how  much  more  interesting  it  is  to 
watch  oneself  think:  what  spectacle  equals  that  of 
the  human  brain,  that  marvelous  hive  where  the 
ideal  bees,  in  their  nest  of  cells,  distil  thought:  a 
fleeting  activity,  but  which  at  least  gives  the  illusion 
of  duration.  Ah!  merely  illusion,  for  only  the 
eternal  exists. 

At  this  point  in  his  revery  Entragues  was  bitten 
by  a  serpent:  the  external,  disdained  and  almost 
disowned  world  was  evoked  in  the  image  of  Six- 
tine.  It  was  necessary  to  admit  it :  he  had  interests 
in  this  part  of  the  perceptible  world. 

Then  returned  the  same  lamentations  :  fear,  hope, 
doubt :  love,  composed  of  these  three  terms,  ever 
arose,  leading  the  trinity  to  unity  and  it  was  a 
circle,  imperious  as  a  circle.  He  lived  a  whole  day 
in  this  prison,  then  towards  evening  a  quite  sharp 
sensation  of  indignity  struck  his  heart  and  this 
obsession,  poisoned  by  the  arrow,  inflamed  the 
wound :  "I  am  going  to  see  Sixtine,  I  want  to  see 
her,  but  if  she  yields  to  my  entreaty,  the  idea  that 
she  surprised  me  with  another  woman  will  make  me 
fancy  that  only  jealousy  inclines  her  to  unshared 
desires,  and  I  will  be  paralyzed.  I  should  do  better 


142  Very  Woman 

to    return    to    my    home."     But    the    image    wa- 
stronger :  he  obeyed  the  suggestion. 

"Ah!"  he  told  himself,  always  capable  of  strict 
reasoning,  "I  am  afraid  I  looked  at  the  work  of  the 
ideal  bees  from  too  near  a  view,  I  well  know  that  I 
think,  but  I  no  longer  know  what  I  think." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   ADORER 
II.     Peacock  Plumes 

"Aria  serena,  guand'apar  1'albore 

E  bianca  neve  scender  senza  vento  .  .  . 

Cio  passa  la  beltate  .  .  . 

De  la  mia  donna  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Non  po'  'maginare 
Ch'om  d'esto  monde  1'ardisca  amirare  .  .  . 
Ed  i'  s'  i'  la  sguardasse,  ne  morira  .  .  . 
Guido   Cavalcanti. 

It  rained  peacock  plumes, 

Pan,  pan,  pan, 

The  multicolored  door  glowed  with  flames. 

The  sky  of  the  bed  trembled  towards  an  oarystis, 
It  rained  peacock  plumes, 
Plumes  of  a  white  peacock. 

THE   tower  waved   gracefully   like   a   felucca 
undulating  in  the  evening  sea  breeze.     And  it 
was  truly  raining  peacock  plumes :  Guido  was  aston- 
ished and  blew  at  them.     He  caught  one  in  flight: 
it  was  white,   with  an  orange  eye  and  luminous 
spaces.     Ah !  they  all  seemed  to  be  looking  at  him : 
they  paused  in  front  of  him,  they  smiled,  they  fell, 
they  died.     As  they  neared  the  earth,  the  wind  spun 
them  around  a  little,  some  dust  floated,  then  they 
143 


144  Very  Woman 

disappeared;  the  passersby  did  not  even  raise  their 
heads. 

The  tower  leaned  over  until  it  touched  the 
ground :  Guido  leaped  into  the  street.  He  was  not 
deceived.  The  peacock  plumes  had  disappeared: 
from  below  they  could  no  longer  be  seen.  It  was 
a  pity,  for  they  were  pretty.  He  continued  to  walk 
in  full  liberty,  his  head  high,  full  of  joy,  watching 
the  women.  He  passed  under  the  madonna  with- 
out emotion,  threw  a  glance  towards  the  portal  of 
the  church,  which  he  found  as  ugly  as  a  wagoner's 
gate,  and  of  the  Novella  he  only  saw  a  madonna 
in  trappings,  wholly  devoid  of  attractions.  Never- 
theless he  bowed  to  her. 

The  door  was  gay  with  oriental  robes:  a  negro 
in  white  was  ordering  some  women  into  a  curtained 
carriage;  the  women  were  caged  like  the  Carmel- 
ites of  Saint-Augustine  when  they  go  to  get  food. 
One  was  in  blue,  one  in  red,  one  in  green,  one  in 
violet,  and  one  in  yellow.  The  first  four  climbed 
into  the  carriage,  laughing  like  children  and  uttering 
rapid  strange  words.  Guido,  who  had  approached, 
saw  that  each  one  bore,  pinned  to  her  monkish 
cloak,  a  label  behind  her  head.  He  deciphered  the 
writing  on  the  violet  woman  who  was  gesticulating 
a  little  less  than  the  others :  All'  eccellentlssimo  e 
nobilissimo  signor  Ricardo  Caraccioli.  So  they  had 
a  certain  destination !  They  were  not  to  be  let  free 
in  the  country  among  the  grass,  the  bluebottles,  the 
poppies  and  crocuses?  But  what  would  the  seig- 
neur Caraccioli  do  with  such  flowerets?  Guido 


The  Adorer  145 

knew  him :  he  was  a  gentleman  of  exemplary  habits, 
the  son  of  a  cardinal,  and  nephew  of  the  late  pope. 
What  would  he  do  with  that  young  girl?  A  dia- 
logue informed  him: 

"Are  they  all  for  the  same  most  excellent  seig- 
neur?" asked  a  subordinate  officer  who  held  a  large 
book  in  his  hand. 

"All  for  the  same  man,"  the  negro  answered,  "at 
least  they  are  all  bound  for  the  same  name.  Does 
it  surprise  you?  But  he  will  share  them  with  his 
friends.  His  only  fear  is  that  they  will  seek  to 
quarrel  with  him." 

"Where  are  they  from?" 

"The  devil  only  knows!  We  captured  them  off 
Algiers.  A  fine  galley,  all  gilded,  with  flowers, 
feathers  and  perfumes.  The  captain  towed  it  to 
Palerma,  where  he  was  able  to  dispose  of  it  at  a 
good  price:  that's  his  privilege.  These  women 
were  on  it;  three  old  women  and  eleven  men,  a 
pasha,  his  equipage,  keepers.  No  time  was  wasted : 
the  men  were  thrown,  bound  and  bleeding,  into  the 
sea.  What  a  crew  of  bandits,  eh?  Eleven  less  and 
the  old  women  thrown  into  the  bargain." 

"Five  Turkish  women,"  the  other  returned. 
"That's  fifty  ducats  for  the  king  and  a  flask  of  wine 
for  me.  .  .  ." 

"Good,  let  us  drink." 

".  .  .  In  women,"  continued  the  doganiere,  "and 
in  specie." 

The  negro  paid.  They  drank  at  a  nearby  tavern, 
their  eyes  never  straying  from  their  merchandise. 


146  Very  Woman 

Guido  understood  that  they  were  slaves  destined 
for  the  harem  of  the  most  illustrious  Caraccioli. 
At  Venice,  where  he  had  lived,  it  was  customary, 
since  the  Turks  were  pirating,  to  return  the  compli- 
ment. If  this  was  becoming  popular  in  Naples,  so 
much  the  better;  he  would  gather,  into  a  little 
house,  some  Oriental  women  for  his  pleasure. 
Guido  was  neither  sufficiently  na'ive  nor  spiteful  to 
believe  that  the  most  excellent  hypocrite  was  carry- 
ing on  the  trade  of  fair  eyes  for  his  friends.  Well ! 
he  could  do  likewise:  arm  a  vessel,  dispatch  it  on 
long  cruises  to  the  Barbary  coasts,  nourish  the  en- 
listed bandits  with  salty  provisions  and  the  captive 
beauties  with  blancmange.  .  .  .  Ah !  he  suddenly 
remembered :  all  his  wealth  had  been  confiscated  by 
the  crown !  Not  even  a  ducat  in  his  hose ;  not  a 
sword,  not  a  pistol  to  procure  money  on  the  high- 
way, and  bareheaded  as  a  Lazarite ! 

He  would  have  to  attend  to  this  penury. 

The  office  of  the  royal  customs-house  was  opened 
and  the  overseer  was  drinking  to  the  fiscal  ransom 
of  the  Algerian  women:  he  entered.  The  arrant 
employees  of  His  Majesty  were  drowsing  pen  in 
hand,  of  course.  He  pushed  another  door,  though 
perceived:  a  third  one,  and  the  treasure.  From  a 
very  fine  collection  of  garments,  hose,  cloaks, 
swords,  pistols  and  French  hats,  he  provided  him- 
self with  a  quite  gallant  outfit,  added  a  remarkable 
piece  of  Alengon  silk,  a  little  string  for  the  women, 
and  some  rope  for  the  silent  strangulation  of  the 
cashier.  It  was  a  small  matter  to  pass  through  the 


The  Adorer  147 

three  doors  where  pleasant  dreams  were  stirring, 
and  he  found  him  a  little  farther  away.  His  sleep 
was  hardly  broken :  a  little  movement  of  the  hands, 
nothing  more.  Without  being  very  rich,  the  royal 
coffer  was  still  interesting.  He  placed  it  in  his 
pockets,  untied  the  rope,  returned  it  to  its  place, 
and  strolled  out. 

On  the  threshold,  the  doganiere  saluted  him : 

"Does  Your  Excellency  deign  to  be  pleased?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  Guido  replied.  "These  gentlemen  are 
polite.  Here,"  he  added,  taking  out  a  ducat,  "go 
and  drink  with  this." 

The  negro  counted  his  women:  one,  two,  three, 
four.  .  .  .  "All's  well.  No,  I  should  have  five. 
Let  us  count  them :  one,  two,  three,  four,  five." 

The  carriage  departed. 

"I  love  you,  my  lord,  let  us  go !" 

The  yellow  Algerian,  appearing  before  him  like 
a  radiant  caprice,  had  taken  him  by  the  hand. 

"As  soon  as  I  saw  you,"  she  continued,  "I  hid 
myself  so  as  not  to  be  led  away  with  the  others, 
for  I  belong  to  you,  I  am  your  slave.  My  name  is 
Pavona." 

"But,"  asked  Guido,  "how  were  you  able  to  see 
me  with  your  closed  eyes,  for  I  know  that,  under 
your  hood,  your  eyes  are  closed!'' 

"It  is  true,"  said  Pavona.     "You  know  me  then?" 

"Yes,  I  know  you,  you  are  she  who  was  des- 
tined me  to  vanquish  the  Novella's  disdain.  When 
I  beseeched  her  love,  the  consent  of  her  passion,  so 
many  times  confessed  and  yet  never  decisive,  she 


148  Very  Woman 

closed  her  eyes,  she  said :  'No.'  And  I  said :  'Well, 
I  will  love  other  eyes  so  that  the  eyes  of  the  Novella 
might  weep  and  be  merciful  to  me.'  Then  her 
eyelashes  lifted  and  I  grew  pale  with  fright:  in- 
stead of  the  blue  and  gentle  irises,  I  saw  strange 
eyes  like  those  designed  on  the  plumes  of  a  peacock, 
a  white  peacock." 

"I  do  not  understand  anything  of  this,"  said 
Pavona.  "I  never  open  my  eyes,  for  a  very  simple 
reason.  I  cannot.  But  I  shall  love  you  well  all 
the  same,  you  see!" 

"You  have  never  tried !" 

"To  open  my  eyes?  No,  and  for  what  purpose, 
since  I  have  none.  Wait,  I  remember  an  oracle  sung 
to  me  by  the  Bohemian  woman,  formerly,  when  I 
was  very  little.  It  had  this  refrain : 

But  when  some  one  to  you  will  say 

'I  love  you !'  sight  will  come  your  way." 

Guido  found  this  very  natural. 

They  stopped  at  a  rich  tavern,  dazzling  as  a 
palace,  and  they  were  received  like  princely  persons. 

Preceded  by  a  servant,  they  climbed,  climbed, 
climbed,  as  though  to  the  sky. 

"Carry  me,  Guido,  or  I  will  be  quite  tired,"  said 
Pavcna. 

Guido  took  her  in  his  arms.  They  climbed, 
climbed,  as  though  towards  the  sky. 

"Kiss  me,  Guido,  or  I  shall  grow  quite  bored," 
said  Pavona. 


The  Adorer  149 

Guido  kissed  the  closed  eyelashes.  They  climbed, 
climbed,  climbed,  as  though  towards  the  sky. 

"Here,"  said  the  servant  at  last,  "is  the  apartment 
of  Your  Highnesses." 

The  multicolored  door  truly  glowed  with  flames, 
for  it  was  of  silver  and  studded  with  diamonds. 

"It  is  heaven's  door,"  said  Pavona.  "I  wish  to 
open  it  myself." 

She  entered  first,  holding  Guido  by  the  hand. 

There  was  a  very  agreeable  blue  dimness  in  the 
chamber :  the  couch,  at  the  end,  defined  itself  under 
heavy  draperies. 

Fondlings  and  caressings:  Guido  felt  himself 
burn  with  desire,  and  Pavona,  quite  determined,  re- 
turned his  kisses,  ardor  for  ardor. 

"I  love  you,"  Guido  cried. 

Pavona  opened  her  eyes. 

They  were  fearful.  They  were  like  the  eyes 
designed  on  the  plumes  of  a  peacock,  a  white  pea- 
cock. 

Guido  swooned  and  awoke  in  his  cell,  an  assassin, 
a  thief,  a  perjurer. 

"I  am  a  wretch,"  he  thought,  after  a  moment, 
"a  wretch  unworthy  of  his  own  pity.  The  crimes 
one  commits  in  dreaming,  one  is  really  capable  of 
committing.  What  occurs  in  the  dream  lay  dormant 
in  the  caves  of  the  will,  or  rather,  they  are  prophecies 
and  the  celestial  admonition  of  an  irrevocable  pre- 
destination. Ah!  rather  to  have  been  criminal  than 
to  live  in  the  certitude  of  a  future  crime.  I  accept 


150  Very  Woman 

the  weight  of  my  mortal  sins :  by  degrees  penitence 
will  dissolve  them  like  a  sack  of  salt  by  the  rain, 
and  my  shoulders  will  straighten  again,  delivered. 
Pardon  me,  most  holy  madonna,  and  punish  me." 

Ah !  1'amour  est  terrible  et  je  soufflre  d'aimer ! 
Comment  benir  encore  tes  adorables  pieds? 
Comment,  d'un  front  souille  par  des  levres  de  femme, 
Recevoir  le  divin  sourire  ou  joue  ton  ame? 
Comment  benir  encore  tes  adorables  pieds  ? 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A    COMPLETE   WOMAN 

"Feminine  to  her  inmost  heart,  and  feminine 

to  her  tender  feet. 

Very  woman  of  very  woman,  nurse  of  ailing 
body  and  mind." 

Tennyson,  Locksley  Hall  Sixty 
Years  After. 

HE  had  a  fair  skin  and  a  savage  mustache,  his 
beard  cut  like  the  Austrians,  an  animal  jaw, 
beatified  eyes;  the  air  of  needing  plenty  of  meat  and 
plenty  of  tenderness.  His  skull  seemed  to  be  straight, 
under  his  closely-cut  hair  and  his  ears,  too  long,  seemed 
endowed  with  a  special  motility.  His  gestures  re- 
vealed the  uneasy  deference  of  the  stranger,  but 
on  occasion  there  appeared  the  sudden  hauteur  of 
the  gentleman ;  he  lacked  an  easy  bearing,  but  there 
was  some  vivacity  and  a  rude  charm  in  him. 

Hubert,  examining  this  intruder,  assumed  a  re- 
serve which  masked  his  curiosity.  He  thought  he 
perceived  that  for  Sixtine  this  was  more  than  a 
chance  visitor,  and  the  name  awakened  a  discourag- 
ing association  of  ideas,  for  it  strictly  agreed  with 
the  initials,  although  this  person,  it  seemed  to  him, 
had  no  connection  with  the  portrait,  so  far  as  the 
151 


152  Very  Woman 

figure  was  concerned.  His  name  was  Sabas  Mosco 
witch. 

Sixtine  spelled  out  the  syllables  with  complacency 
and,  after  uttering  a  few  banalities,  narrated  some 
pages  of  the  history  of  Monsieur  Sabas.  A  life 
not  unlike  Tolstoy's,  without  the  final  mysticism : 
a  period  of  living  in  the  Caucasus  and  then  at  his 
manor,  in  his  domains  which  were  disorganized  by 
the  recent  freedom;  he  had  a  reformative  turn  of 
mind  in  sympathy  with  modern  trends,  and  had  won 
successes  at  the  theatre  with  dramas  of  conflicts 
which  had  displeased  the  czar ;  then,  and  this  was  the 
interesting  side  of  Monsieur  Sabas,  he  had  come  to 
France  to  have  his  dramas  played.  As  he  knew 
French  from  childhood,  he  was  translating  them 
himself.  Yet  some  advice  would  be  profitable  to 
him :  he  likewise  had  need  of  some  support  in  the 
literary  world.  She  boldly  anticipated  the  kind- 
ness of  Hubert. 

"M.  d'Entragues  could  be  very  useful  to  you." 

Entragues,  in  a  very  guarded  tone,  offered  his 
services.  To  read  his  dramas,  present  the  author 
to  the  Revue  speculative,  give  the  cue  to  Van  Bael, 
who  knew  everybody,  win  over  Fortier — all  this  was 
possible.  Besides,  Fortier  was  seeking  new  things : 
it  would  be  a  good  idea,  after  the  novels,  to  attempt 
the  publication  of  a  Russian  drama.  One  of  them 
would  appear  in  the  Revue  with  a  great  hubbub, 
and  the  road  would  be  prepared  for  the  others. 

Sixtine  seemed  enchanted  with  the  plan:  Mosco- 
witch  had  a  vision  of  the  glory  he  would  gain; 


A  Complete  Woman  153 

Entragues  said  to  himself :  "Either  they  are  mak- 
ing a  fool  of  me,  and  I  have  nothing  to  lose  in  being 
amiable  to  this  Russian,  or  else  she  is  only  interest- 
ing herself  in  him  through  vanity,  and  the  more  I 
do,  the  more  she  will  be  grateful  to  me.  No,  I  shall 
certainly  be  a  dupe  and  without  reward;  there  are 
old  relations  between  them:  the  S.  M.  proves  it. 
Oh!  how  anxious  I  am  to  mock  gently  before  be- 
ing mocked  myself  by  the  facts.  That  would  mean 
to  lose  all.  Ah!  but  I  am  implicated  in  odd  in- 
trigues! I  must  examine  my  acts  carefully  and 
weigh  my  words:  it  is  painful.  Ah!  how  I  should 
like  to  leave!  How  I  wish  that  I  had  never  known 
this  woman  who  holds  me  here  and  compares  me 
with  the  other !  I  see  it  quite  well :  she  is  analyzing 
us,  in  so  far  as  a  woman  is  capable  of  doing  it ;  she 
measures  and  weighs  us;  she  asks  herself  which 
of  the  two  would  give  her  the  greater  pleasure. 
And  perhaps  she  is  embarrassed,  for  if  one  of  us, 
and  it  is  I,  should  attract  her  by  the  physical  and  in- 
tellectual affinities  of  race,  the  other  has  for  her 
the  magic  of  newness,  of  the  unexpected,  of  the  dif- 
ferent. For  she  is  perverted :  without  this,  she  would 
have  a  husband  or  a  lover.  Women  who  wait,  who 
want  to  choose,  who  desire  the  utmost  possible,  are 
capable  of  deciding  suddenly  under  the  pressure  of 
an  unaccustomed  sensation.  But  is  it  the  first  time 
she  has  seen  this  Moscowitch  ?  Oh,  no !  but  as  long 
as  the  veil  has  not  been  lifted,  the  mystery  remains 
untouched  and  still  tempting.  The  exportation  to 
France  of  Russian  novels  should  be  an  enterprise  for 


154  Very  Woman 

the  Don  Juans  of  the  Neva:  one  must  be,  at  this 
hour,  a  Russian  to  please.  Oh!  it  is  quite  immate- 
rial whether  we  shall  be  Russianized  to-day  or  in  a 
century,  since  we  will  be  so,  eventually :  Tolstoy  is 
the  ensign-bearer  and  Dostoevsky  the  trumpet  of 
the  vanguard.  Amen!  I  open  the  door  to  Mosco- 
witch.  If  they  play  his  dramas  in  place  of  mine  and 
if  he  takes  the  woman  I  desire,  well  and  good,  for 
deprived  of  all,  I  shall  perhaps  enjoy  peace." 

Having  finished  this  inward  monologue,  hardly 
interrupted  by  the  nodding  of  the  head  and  the  vague 
syllables  thrown  by  him  as  replies  in  the  conversa- 
tion, Entragues,  with  a  sudden  movement,  arose. 

"You  are  leaving?" 

There  was  such  an  accent  of  reproach  in  these 
three  words  that  Entragues  was  stricken  with  re- 
morse. It  was  a  foolish  act :  he  soon  saw  its 
consequence,  for  Moscowitch  instantly  stood  up  to 
his  full  height,  ready  to  follow  him. 

"Since  it  is  too  late,  and  since  the  pleasure  of  a 
tete-a-tete  eludes  me,  we  will  leave  together.  I 
wouldn't  mind  talking  a  little  with  this  Russian  and, 
if  he  must  be  my  rival,  learning  his  quality ;  at  least 
I  shall  know  to  whom  I  yield  my  place." 

He  was  a  child. 

"Isn't  she  truly  charming  and  adorable?" 

"Ah!  confidences?"  Entragues  told  himself. 
"This  is  excellent.  He  belongs  to  those  whose  heart 
overflows  with  sentiment  as  a  brook  under  a  heavy 
rain,  and  he  is  going  to  tell  me  his  life.  Perfect. 


A  Complete  Woman  155 

I  am  conscious  of  a  mischievous  curiosity.  How 
I  will  enjoy  it!" 

A  slight  quiver  of  joy  coursed  through  him,  and 
his  fingers  twisted  through  nervousness. 

"Isn't  she?" 

"Are  you  speaking  of  Madame  Magne?  I  have 
known  her  only  a  short  while.  She  is  an  intelli- 
gent woman." 

"It  is  evident,"  Moscowitch  rejoined,  "that  her 
beauty,  her  charm,  and  her  grace  have  not  made  a 
strong  impression  on  you.  It  is  surprising." 

"Why  so?  The  sympathies  of  any  group  do  not 
necessarily  go  to  the  same  woman,  though  she  have 
intelligence  and  an  Aspasian  beauty.  The  charm 
that  has  captivated  you  does  not  exist  for  me,  or 
exists  only  in  a  less  degree." 

"Ah !  you  reason  like  a  very  sensible  Frenchman. 
As  for  myself,  I  believe  I  am  incapable  of  reasoning 
on  this  point." 

"This  does  not  prevent  me,"  Entragues  returned, 
"from  doing  justice  to  her  qualities.  She  is,  to  put 
it  simply,  a  complete  woman.  This  word,  which  im- 
plies everything  and  specifies  nothing,  is  appropri- 
ate, for  I  believe  her  to  be  very  flexible,  and  made  to 
pattern  herself,  like  the  ivy,  on  the  oak  to  which 
she  will  cling." 

"I  hope,"  Entragues  reflected,  "that  I  speak  clearly 
and  with  an  abundance  of  commonplaces,  for  I  wish 
to  be  understood." 

After  a  brief  silence,  Moscowitch  slowly  uttered 


156  Very  Woman 

these  words  which  he  seemed  to  be  repeating  to  him- 
self: 

"Yes,  I  think  I  will  be  happy  with  her." 

Entragues  controlled  his  emotions  and  asked  in 
a  calm  voice : 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  her?" 

"Yes,  if  she  consents.  That  is  my  intention  arid 
my  dearest  wish.  She  says  neither  no  nor  yes.  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  about  it." 

"You  don't  displease  her?" 

"You  think  not?" 

"I  mean,"  Entragues  answered,  "that  you  please 
her.  But  she  herself  does  not  know  it  and  you  must 
teach  her  to  read  her  own  heart.  Recall  the  words 
of  Madame  Recamier  to  Benjamin  Constant :  'Dare, 
my  friend,  dare!'  You  perhaps  don't  know  the 
French  women,  but  trust  to  my  experience.  A  little 
force  doesn't  displease  them.  I  don't  say  violence, 
I  say  force.  The  iron  hand  gloved  in  velvet  can 
play  a  decisive  role  in  love ;  nothing  more  enlightens 
a  woman  about  her  own  sentiments  than  a  kiss 
which  goes  further  than  kisses.  Then  she  knows 
what  she  wishes  and  nine  times  out  of  ten  she  will 
love,  through  gratitude,  the  bold  man  who  has 
drawn  her  from  indecision.  Note  this  well :  she 
runs  after  her  modesty  as  one  runs  after  one's  gold." 

Moscowitch,  very  interested,  drew  nearer  to  En- 
tragues and,  as  if  to  appropriate  him  to  himself, 
passed  his  arm  under  Entragues',  saying: 

"May  I?" 

"The  great  liberty  ?    Ah !  you  know  your  authors ! 


A  Complete  Woman  157 

I  believe  we  are  going  to  become  friends,  for  I  felt  a 
great  sympathy  towards  you  from  the  very  first  .  .  . 
It  is  just  like  in  the  trenches,  before  Sebastopol  .  .  . 
See,  my  dear  Moscowitch,  I  who  usually  am  good 
for  nothing,  who  am  endowed  with  only  a  modest 
activity,  I  wish,  in  the  name  of  this  common  friend, 
who  will  be  more  than  a  friend  for  you,  to  help 
your  noble  ambitions,  like  a  brother.  You  must 
attain  everything:  love  and  glory  must  crown  your 
genius." 

Moscowitch  breathed  deeply. 

"Ah !  how  happy  I  am  to  have  met  you !" 

"Why,"  Entragues  modestly  returned,  "I  think 
you  will  not  have  to  repent  it.  There  are  so  few 
people  capable  of  understanding;  one  usually  finds 
only  envy,  jealousy,  stupidity,  conceit,  and  indiffer- 
ence when  one  is  born  under  a  very  favorable  star. 
Come,  where  shall  we  begin  ?  You  know  that  I  can 
in  no  way  directly  intervene  to  further  your  mar- 
riage. Just  acquaint  me  with  what  takes  place  and 
I  will  give  you  advice  on  the  conduct  to  be  followed. 
You  will  come  to  see  me ;  we  shall  deliberate  like  a 
counsel  of  war;  we  shall  examine  the  condition  of  the 
place;  we  shall  make  plans;  we  shall  leave  nothing 
to  chance,  and  we  will  be  victors.  Have  no  doubts 
upon  this.  Do  you  know  her  long  ?" 

"Since  last  winter.  Some  Russian  friends  gave 
me  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Madame  la  comtesse 
d'Aubry,  who  introduced  me  one  evening  to  Ma- 
dame Magne.  I  suddenly  felt  that  my  life  had 
found  its  goal." 


158  Very  Woman 

"It  was  a  sort  of  thunderbolt?" 

"I  know  that  word,  thunderbolt,"  Moscowitch 
complacently  remarked.  "No,  a  sudden  attraction, 
rather.  I  saw  her  and  loved  her — that  is  all." 

"And  you  did  not  confess  your  love  till  long 
after?" 

"Later,  two  or  three  months  afterwards.  But  I 
believe  she  had  already  perceived  my  sentiments. 
for  she  was  not  surprised  to  hear  me  express  them." 

"The  fact  that  one  loves  a  woman  never  aston- 
ishes her;  it  is  the  contrary  that  surprises  her." 

"Yes,  she  had  divined  my  state  of  mind." 

"Oh !  they  always  divine,  and  that  is  why  confes- 
sions always  find  them  so  calm.  So  she  allowed  you 
to  come  to  see  her?" 

"Yes,  and  I  did ;  but  one  finds  her  so  rarely !  We 
met  quite  often  at  the  home  of  the  countess  and  I 
spent  a  delightful  fortnight,  oh!  very  delightful,  at 
the  chateau  de  Rabodanges,  during  the  month  of 
July.  I  was  to  have  returned  there  in  September 
and  she,  too,  was  to  have  rturned  there,  but  I  had 
to  leave  for  Russia.  I  am  here  only  a  week.  I  met 
her  again  for  the  first  time  this  evening.  I  confess, 
my  dear  Monsieur  d'Entragues,  that  your  entrance 
in  the  room  was  very  disagreeable  to  me.  I  repent 
having  had  this  wicked  sentiment,  but  I  could  not 
guess  that  I  had  before  me  a  friend  so  ...  so  ..." 

"So  useful,"  Entragues  finished.  "Friends 
should  be  useful.  That  is  their  purpose.  Then,  at 
Rabodanges?" 

"It  was  delightful.     I  cannot  find  another  word. 


A  Complete  Woman  159 

It  was  there  she  did  my  portrait.  It  is  quite  good, 
only  there  is  no  resemblance.  I  think  she  was  mak- 
ing sport  of  me  that  day,  for  why  should  she  give  me 
a  pointed  beard  instead  of  this  national  cut  of  which 
I  am  proud,  and  which  I  shall  certainly  never  change. 
Besides,  thanks  to  retouchings,  the  very  features  do 
not  belong  to  me.  She  began  by  copying  my  figure 
and  ended  by  designing  a  dream." 

"Was  it  a  sketch?"  Entragues  asked,  amused  at 
this  cruel  feminine  irony. 

"Yes,  but  she  etched  it  the  following  day,  for 
you  know  she  has  a  real  talent  in  that  direction. 
She  made  two  copies  in  my  presence,  gave  me  one 
and  then  used  the  same  copper  plate  to  elaborate 
a  fantastic  landscape  where  my  head  became  a  tree, 
cloud,  grass,  I  know  not  what.  This  figure,  which 
at  least  I  had  inspired,  I  have  lost,  and  despite 
everything,  I  deplore  its  loss  because  of  the  inscrip- 
tion." 

"That  is  regrettable,"  Entragues  coldly  said,  "for 
without  speaking  of  the  sentiment  which  doubles 
the  price  of  things,  this  almost  unique  sketch  had  a 
value  because  of  its  rarity  and  curiosity.  If  it 
ever  fell  into  my  hands — for  things  go  astray  and 
are  found  again — I  do  not  truly  know  if  I  would 
surrender  it  to  you.  I  have  a  collector's  taste." 

"It  is  with  this  portrait  as  with  its  author,"  replied 
Moscowitch,  with  a  sudden  menacing  violence.  "I 
believe  it  was  in  the  works  of  a  Spanish  poet  that 
I  once  read:  'I  love  your  love  more  than  your 
life.'  " 


160  Very  Woman 

Entragues  was  tempted  to  say :  "I  possess  this 
sketch,  and  I  have  no  intention  of  returning  it  to 
you,  my  friend."  What  would  the  consequences 
be?  A  duel.  But  this  manner  of  treating  life 
roughly  and  questioning  the  fates  was  truly  quite 
naive.  Sixtine  would  probably  belong  to  the  victor ; 
at  least,  it  would  have  happened  thus  in  barbarous 
times.  These  days,  the  vanquished  have  attractions. 
They  inspire  pity  and  the  gods  are  often  wrong. 
Would  I  not  love  her  enough  to  risk  my  life? 
Life  means  nothing  to  me:  if  I  had  any  doubts  on 
the  matter,  I  would  prove  the  contrary  by  quitting 
it.  Moscowitch  would  willingly  fight ;  but  he  is  a 
simple  soul,  while  I  am  very  complicated." 

Aloud,  he  continued : 

"A  woman  who  inspires  such  a  passion  is  van- 
quished in  advance.  But  you  must  master  yourself, 
so  as  not  to  be  compromised.  Do  not  see  her  too 
often,  nor  too  long  at  one  time.  Let  her  understand 
that  you  suffer  and  that  the  more  cruel  she  is,  the 
more  you  suffer.  Keep  enough  presence  of  mind 
to  remain  an  exact  observer,  and  then,  some  fine 
day,  thrust  the  knife  into  her  neck,  crying :  T  suffer 
too  much,  be  merciful.'  She  yields  and  you  are 
happy,  unless  your  imagination  has  exceeded  real- 
ity. This  happens ;  then  one  misses  il  tempo  de' 
dolci  sospiri.  Oh !  you  need  not  fear  this  weakness ; 
you  are  robust  and  she  is  beautiful.  There  are  other 
ways  of  reaching  the  same  end ;  what  I  give  you  is 
the  surest.  It  is  the  procedure  of  physical  love,  I 
confess,  but  no  other  mimicry  affects  a  woman  to  a 


A  Complete  Woman  161 

greater  degree.  Before  all,  they  wish  to  be  de- 
sired; the  rest  comes  or  does  not  come,  it  is  an  ad- 
dition. It  is  the  cement  which  joins  the  stones,  but 
the  Cyclopean  constructions  dispensed  with  it  quite 
easily  and  were  not  the  less  solid.  Like  the  block  of 
granite,  the  strength  of  the  body  is  the  base  of  all :  one 
must  promise  marvels  of  solidity  and  the  idea  of 
duration,  of  eternal  duration,  will  soon  rise.  He 
who  gives  this  impression  does  not  find  women  in- 
human, and  he  who  transforms  it  into  fine  and  good 
sensations,  during  the  hours  of  maturity,  has  nothing 
to  fear  from  infidelity.  Ah!  you  are  fortunate, 
Moscowitch;  you  are  a  Hercules!" 

"You  speak,"  said  the  Russian,  "as  if  I  should  dis- 
semble. But  this  passion,  at  once  ideal  and  physical, 
I  truly  feel  and  if  I  say  that  I  suffer  I  shall  not  be 
lying." 

"All  the  better,  for  sincerity  is  a  mighty  wonder- 
worker, but  you  would  be  able  to  say  nothing  and, 
through  modesty,  you  would  conceal  your  sufferings. 
I  merely  offer  you  the  means  of  not  suffering,  of 
not  loving  in  vain.  Ah!  the  futile  loves,  the  de- 
ceitful tortures  of  vain  desire:  tears — good  grain 
sown  on  the  sands!" 

"Yes,"  Moscowitch  answered,  "all  who  weep  are 
not  consoled.  I  thank  you  and  understand  you. 
You,  too,  have  the  religion  of  human  suffering." 

"I!"  Hubert  wanted  to  cry,  jestingly.  But  why 
wound  this  humanitarian  mystic?  He  simply  an- 
swered : 

"Grief  is  inevitable,  but  far  from  being  evil,  it 


1 62  Very  Woman 

is  the  very  honor  of  humanity  and  the  supreme  rea- 
son of  existence.  We  suffer  in  order  to  be  less 
ugly,  and  that,  in  the  vulgarity  of  our  animal  flesh, 
there  may  be  an  esthetic  illusion.  Joys  are  unac- 
ceptible  and  repulsive  which  have  in  them  no  prom- 
ise of  suffering:  two  lovers,  in  their  sports,  make 
a  charming  spectacle  because  they  tread  on  the  frag- 
ile trap-door  of  an  oubliette,  full  of  stakes  and  hooks. 
Intellectual  desires,  in  the  same  way,  are  interesting 
in  that  they  surely  lead  to  the  horrors  of  deception 
or  doubt.  Try,  then,  you  who  are  a  poet  and  a 
creator  of  souls,  to  induce  the  esthetic  thrill  in  your 
audience  with  the  picture  of  a  perfect  happiness : 
joy  is  illogical,  and,  since  the  illogical  is  the  es- 
sential cause  of  laughter,  joy  causes  laughter.  This 
might,  nevertheless,  serve  in  the  fifth  act  as  an  unex- 
pected punishment.  Could  you  not  show  a  happy 
knave  just  by  inflicting  upon  him  the  most  degrading 
punishment  possible  to  a  man?  Happy,  while  he 
dreams  infinitely  of  the  contempt  residing  in  the 
word,  'happy'!" 

"Yet,"  Moscowitch  answered,  "we  do  nothing  else 
but  pursue  happiness." 

"Oh !"  Entragues  rejoined,  "that  is  a  pastime. 
We  know  quite  well  that  we  shall  never  reach  it. 

"I  believe,"  the  Russian  said,  "that  you  judge  hu- 
manity by  your  own  sentiments." 

"I  think  so  too,"  Entragues  answered,  "but  the 
contrary  would  be  the  more  surprising.  With  whose 
brain  would  you  have  me  think,  if  not  with  my 
own  ?" 


A  Complete  Woman  163 

They  separated,,  after  having  arranged  a  rendez- 
vous. Moscowitch,  on  the  day  after  the  morrow  or 
the  following  day,  would  call  for  Entragues  at  his 
home,  and  together  they  would  go  to  la  Revue 
speculative. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

NEW  SUGGESTIONS 

"Le  fol  n'a  Dieu." 
Epilogue  des  Conies  d'Autrappel. 

UTT  THAT  a  painful  evening!"  thought  Hubert, 
\\  after  returning  to  his  home.  "What 
nonsense  I  have  had  to  think,  what  platitudes  to 
hear,  what  stupid  remarks  to  bray?  And  in  what 
a  language !  Just  so  the  practical  part  of  my  talk  be 
not  useless !  I  count  on  brutality  blended  with  much 
weeping :  Sixtine  will  be  irritated  or  bored,  and  the 
Russian  will  disappear  from  our  life.  Yes,  our  life, 
I  have  rights  upon  this  woman,  those  rights  of  mu- 
tual intelligence.  We  understand  each  other;  with  a 
little  attention  and  verbal  caresses,  I  can  acquire  a 
pleasant  antenuptial  position  near  her.  She  is  not 
one  of  those  who  are  dominated  by  a  perpetual  ap- 
petite of  the  flesh  and  I  believe  that  her  delicacy 
would  regard  as  shameful  the  very  idea  of  yielding 
to  force.  Ah !  in  short,  I  do  not  know  her :  the  plan 
I  have  given  Moscowitch  is  perhaps  good.  Yes, 
one  can  never  know,  but  if  he  adopts  it  he  will  have 
an  air  of  insincerity  and  she  will  perceive  it." 

He  was  less  philosophical  on  the  morrow,  and,  in 
a  moment  of  ill-humor,  gave  himself  this  alternative 
164 


New  Suggestions  165 

which  had  for  an  instant  occupied  him  the  evening 
before:  Either  he  would  be  completely  disinter- 
ested in  Sixtine,  or  he  would  become  her  lover  within 
twenty-four  hours.  "I  cannot  play  the  role  of  a 
companion  to  Moscowitch,  I  cannot  admit  such 
a  possibility  in  my  life — he  or  I.  What!  will  those 
dear  arms  I  have  clasped  around  my  neck  in  dreams 
caress  the  Austrian  beard  of  this  dramatist?  I 
do  not  even  wish  to  give  expression  to  my  jealousy : 
in  himself,  Moscowitch  is  only  another  person. 
Thus,  shall  another  person  have  those  lips  and  eyes 
and  hair?  Vulgar  plaints  of  a  vulgar  jealous  per- 
son :  to  what  details  do  I  apply  my  imagination  ? 
How  the  obscene  image  possesses  me !  So  one  must 
come  to  this  point,  and  that  is  why  I  love  her — 
for  that  alone!  Bravo!  words  are  useful:  with 
words  one  analyzes  everything,  one  destroys  and 
sullies  everything.  Since  it  is  this,  I  no  longer  wish 
it.  Valentine  plays  the  beast  prettily,  and  what 
more  do  I  want !  She  is  sly  as  a  succuba  and 
charming  in  her  ways,  and  what  more  do  I  want! 
Her  caresses  have  a  profuse  generosity:  her  heart 
is  on  her  hand  and  on  her  lips,  and  what  more  do  I 
want!" 

He  took  a  walk,  despite  the  cold,  through  the  bare 
and  muddy  alleys  of  the  Luxembourg,  among  the 
shivering  statues  and  silent  trees. 

"If  desire,"  he  thought  once  more,  "permits  me 
— even  in  thought — the  freedom  of  choice,  what  is 
the  good  of  loving,  or  do  I  really  and  truly  love? 
I  would  perhaps  need,  like  a  woman,  possession  to 


1 66  Very  Woman 

free  me  of  my  doubts.  I  am  afraid  lest,  after  its 
first  blossoming,  my  temperament  grow  effeminate 
and  give  way,  corroded  by  the  rust  of  a  devouring 
indecision.  After  my  ideas,  I  analyze  my  senti- 
ments :  the  air  is  becoming  unbreathable.  I  thought 
that  a  passion  would  have  refashioned  the  synthesis 
of  my  will ;  it  is  too  late — the  elements,  dispersed, 
have  become  irreconcilable;  here  I  am,  approaching 
the  state  of  a  fakir  who,  with  arms  uplifted  to  an 
empty  sky,  immobile  and  with  feet  firmly  pressed 
against  the  ground,  dreams  of  the  life  he  will  no 
longer  live.  Thinking  is  not  living;  living  is  feel- 
ing. Where  am  I  ?  I  wished  to  penetrate  the  es- 
sence of  each  thing;  I  saw  that  there  was  nothing 
but  movement,  and  the  world,  reduced  to  an  in- 
divisible force,  vanished :  I  expected  to  double  my 
sensations  by  dividing  them,  and  I  have  seen  them 
annihilated.  There  is  nothing  worth  the  lifting 
of  a  finger  tip:  one's  reason  reduces  everything  to 
a  vague  stirring  of  cerebral  atoms,  to  a  little  in- 
ward bluster." 

As  he  whispered  in  the  gloomy  silence  of  the  vast 
garden,  the  words  took  flight,  leaving  only  a  mur- 
muring trace  of  their  passage.  It  required  an  effort 
for  him  to  reseize  the  logic  of  his  complaints: 

"Yes,  I  was  in  doubt.  Well!  I  believe  that  I 
have  cast  it  beyond  the  previous  limits."  This  sat- 
isfaction of  the  author  cheered  him :  "So,  I  shall 
write  about  it,  I  shall  show  how  this  little  inward 
bluster,  which  is  nothing,  contains  everything,  how, 
with  the  support  of  a  single  sensation  always  the 


New  Suggestions  167 

same  and  distorted  from  its  very  inception,  a  brain 
isolated  from  the  world  can  create  a  world  for  it- 
self. My  Adorer  will  show  whether  it  is  necessary, 
for  the  purpose  of  living,  to  mingle  with  surround- 
ing complications.  But  it  is  only  an  experiment 
and  my  real  work  will  be  this :  a  being  born  with  the 
complete  paralysis  of  all  his  senses,  nothing  func- 
tioning but  the  brain  and  the  digestive  apparatus. 
This  being  has  no  knowledge  of  external  things 
since,  even  the  sensitiveness  of  the  skin  is  absent. 
A  miracle,  electric  or  otherwise,  partially  cures  him ; 
he  learns  to  talk  and  relates  his  cerebral  life:  it  is 
just  like  other  lives.  It  is  necessary  to  find  the  point 
of  departure,  to  find,  at  least,  a  medical  example." 

While  reflecting,  he  recognized  that  his  scorn  of 
materialism  was  leading  him  a  little  far:  it  was 
hurling  him  into  absurdity.  Yet,  such  an  imagina- 
tion seemed  less  stupid  than  the  psychical  negation 
of  the  one  group  and  the  dualism  of  the  other. 
The  spiritualists,  in  fact,  did  not  inspire  him  with 
less  wrath:  these  bastards  of  Theology  and  Com- 
mon Sense  really  formed  the  most  obnoxious  hybrid 
of  all  the  human  flora.  Of  all  the  outrages  which 
the  ignorant  pour  like  a  shower  of  mud  on  all  who 
think,  this  class  especially  offended  him  and  nothing 
irritated  him  so  much  as  to  hear  grouped  as  ideal- 
ists, without  distinction,  all  those  who  do  not  admit 
the  theories  of  Bikhner,  in  science,  or  those  of  Zola, 
in  literature. 

"Ah!  I  grow  angry  against  ignorance;  that  is 
worse  than  warring  with  stupidity.  And!  then, 


1 68  Very  Woman 

among  those  who  do  not  know  are  some  who  would 
like  to  know :  it  is  not  their  fault.  A  few  suffice, 
besides:  only  the  summits  count.  It  is  on  the 
mountains  that  formerly  the  annunciatory  beacons 
blazed." 

This  last  reflection  was  sufficiently  disinterested: 
he  willingly  thought  of  himself  as  a  summit,  but  he 
also  knew  that  no  beacon  would  ever  burn  there. 
The  world  was  not  ready  to  hear  any  great  tidings 
he  cared  to  announce.  Without  doubt,  like  others, 
he  had  come  too  late  or  too  early.  The  ears  would 
be  stopped  up  if  he  opened  his  mouth,  for  he  could 
only  repeat  the  vain  speech  of  the  prophets:  Nisi 
Dominus  aedificaverit  domun,  in  vanum  laboraver- 
unt  qui  aedificant  earn.  .  .  . 

"Hello!  what  are  you  doing  alone,  walking  like 
an  inspired  person?" 

"Ah!  my  dear  Calixte,  I  am  bored  to  death." 

"What  about  spending  the  evening  together?" 
asked  Heliot.  "You  know,  I  am  hardly  entertaining, 
but  we  will  talk." 

"Agreed,"  said  Entragues,  taking  his  friend's 
arm,  "I  cling  to  you,  as  a  castaway  to  a  spar." 

"But,"  returned  Calixte  laughing,  "I  am  in  no 
wise  the  partial  result  of  a  shipwreck.  I  ride  the 
sea  quite  well,  the  mast  is  firmly  planted,  the  hull 
is  sound  .  .  .  come,  embark  and  don't  treat  me  like  a 
wreck.  Now,  listen,  I  am  going  to  return  and  get 
rid  of  this  cumbersome  portfolio;  I  will  get  some 
verses  I  want  to  show  you,  then  we  will  go  to  your 


New  Suggestions  169 

home  and  you  will  also  read  me  some  slightly 
symbolic  pages,  eh?" 

They  discussed  the  value  of  the  words  with 
which  the  modern  schools  of  writers  distinguish 
themselves.  The  symbolists,  according  to  Entragues, 
usurped  their  name;  one  never  makes  a  symbol 
purposely,  unless  one  is  dedicated  to  this  career  as 
the  fabulists  to  the  fable.  For  him  the  symbol  was 
the  summit  of  art,  conquered  only  by  those  who  had 
placed  upon  it  a  statue  which  was  superhuman  and 
which  yet  had  a  human  appearance,  containing  an 
idea  in  its  form. 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "in  Milton's  Satan  you 
have  a  symbol,  in  de  Vigny's  Mo'ise  you  have  a 
symbol,  in  Villiers'  Hadaly  you  have  a  symbol. 
The  symbol  is  a  soul  made  visible :  the  type  is  only 
the  resume  or  the  epitome  of  a  character." 

"Your  definition  is  not  clear.  It  seems  to  me 
that  what  you  take  for  the  symbol  is  rather  to  be 
called  synthesis." 

"No,  synthesis  is  found,  indeed,  in  the  symbol — 
it  is  the  final  process;  if  synthesis  has  not  been  pre- 
ceded by  an  analysis — it  matters  not  whether  it  be 
brief  or  long  provided  it  be  exact — there  is  no  sym- 
bol, because  there  is  no  life." 

"Say  rather  that  every  psychological  masterpiece 
contains  a  symbol." 

"Perhaps,"  cenceded  Entragues.  "Would  a  sym- 
bolist then  signify  a  fabricator  of  masterpieces?" 

"At  least  that  is  quite  an  interesting  ideal  and  I 


170  Very  Woman 

believe  you  will  not  disclaim  it.  You  don't  worry 
about  the  public  any  more  than  I  do ;  you  would 
rather  please  ten  select  persons  than  please  every- 
body, to  the  exclusion  of  the  ten." 

"Evidently.  We  are  not  actors  and  the  applause 
do  not  make  us  beam  with  joy.  But  if  we  write 
neither  to  win  universal  approbation  nor  to  earn 
money,  we  become  truly  incomprehensible." 

"Write  for  your  mistress,"  said  Calixte. 

"I  have  none,"  said  Entragues. 

"Write  for  the  Madonna  of  Botticelli,"  said  Cal- 
ixte. 

"That  is  what  I  am  doing,"  said  Entragues. 

"A  lovely  and  noble  confident.  Do  you  remem- 
ber what  the  page  says  in  the  Gitana?  I  know  it  by 
heart.  It  is  the  portrait  of  our  mistress,  since  it  is 
that  of  poetry,  Listen  to  it  in  the  stately  language 
of  Cervantes :  'La  poesia  es  una  bellissima  doncella, 
casta,  honesta,  discreta,  aguda,  retirada,  y  que  se 
contien  en  las  limites  de  la  discretion  mas  alta:  es 
amiga  de  la  soledad,  las  fuentes  la  entretien,  los 
prados  la  consuelan,  los  arboles  la  desenojan,  los 
Hares  le  alegran;  y  finalmente  deleyta  y  ensena  a 
quantos  con  ella  communican.' " 

Their  talk  often  ended  thus,  by  the  recollection 
of  an  old  impression,  in  mystic  and  shy  plaints. 
Calixte  was  gentle  towards  life,  which  had  not  shown 
him  the  same  clemency.  No  one  knew  what  he 
sought,  excepting  the  fine  editions  of  old  poets  and 
the  mysterious  modern  prints:  his  disdain  of  all 
vainglory  was  more  sincere  than  that  of  Entragues, 


New  Suggestions  171 

in  whom  heredity  determined  a  dim  need  of  social 
domination.  Entragues  strove  to  scorn  life.  Dur- 
ing the  long  and  painful  reckonings  of  his  tutelage, 
he  had  undergone,  without  external  revolt,  the  humil- 
iation of  a  lowly  situation,  a  horror  of  the  forced 
fabrication  of  worthless  copy  for  miserly  publishers. 
The  verdict  of  several  lawsuits  had  despoiled  him 
of  the  relics  of  his  patrimony;  but  he  would  have 
consented  to  a  Castilian  wretchedness  rather  than 
abandon  his  dream.  He  wisned  to  regild  his  name, 
and,  encircled  by  glory,  he  hated  the  present,  as  an 
obstacle,  but  he  would  have  liked  to  assume  the 
existence  that  was  due  him,  to  put  it  on  like  a  ducal 
cloak,  without  astonishment,  with  the  satisfaction 
of  a  lord  returning  to  his  domains.  He  was  wait- 
ing; nothing  would  have  surprised  him,  but  neither 
did  the  nothing  surprise  him:  hence,  the  infinite 
contradictions  of  his  character  and  conduct.  He 
knew  his  nature  and  had  applied  to  himself,  with  a 
joy  which  revealed  the  triplicity  of  his  soul,  this  line 
of  Dante: 

Che  senza,  speme  vivemo  in  disio. 

"And  without  hope  live  in  desire."  His  triplicity, 
a  quite  elementary  scholastic  division,  he  thus  ex- 
plained:  a  soul  that  wills,  a  soul  that  knows  the 
uselessness  of  willing,  a  soul  that  watches  the 
struggle  of  the  other  two  and  writes  the  Iliad  of  it. 

He  had  no  naivete,  save  perhaps  in  his  rare  un- 
fortunate crises,  for  in  his  normal  state  his  proud 
indifference  of  principle  saved  him  from  anger  and 
its  consequences.  Thus,  his  indignation  against 


172  Very  Woman 

Moscowitch  had  become  deadened  after  the  first 
thought  of  vengeance,  and  he  was  the  man,  on 
matters  that  did  not  touch  the  essentials,  to  give  up 
a  thing  in  despair,  send  the  handle  after  the  ax. 
But  he  was  also  the  man  to  lift  and  unite  the  fallen 
instrument.  He  was  the  man  to  do  the  contrary  of 
what  he  pretended  to  do,  but  as  his  acts  were  a 
spectacle  to  himself,  and  the  most  amusing  of  all 
spectacles,  he  never  let  it  sadden  him  beyond  meas- 
ure. He  knew  himself  full  of  the  unexpected  and 
liked  it :  ah !  without  this  he  surely  would  have  been 
wearied,  for  the  rest  of  the  world  unrolled  itself 
to  his  wearied  eyes  but  as  a  circus  performance, 
truly  too  monotonous;  the  world  was  peopled  by 
vague  and  distant  phantoms  thrown  on  the  eternally 
trod  course. 

Calixte  was  much  more  simple:  all  dream,  all 
faith,  all  spontaneity.  No  one  could  guess  at  the 
aim  of  his  movements,  and,  in  short,  he  had  no  other 
aim  than  movement  itself.  Older  than  Entragues 
by  five  or  six  years,  and  having  attained  a  certain 
renown  as  a  stylist  and  delicate  thinker,  he  was 
unconcerned  with  it;  he  always  kept  the  tone  and  the 
manners  of  a  beginner,  carried  his  manuscripts  here 
and  there,  preferably  to  the  little  new  reviews,  not, 
like  others,  with  the  purpose  of  lording  it  there, 
but  rather  from  a  need  of  silence,  not  to  have  to 
discuss,  to  demonstrate,  by  a  necessary  charlatanry, 
the  merit  of  a  work. 

He  earned  little,  because  of  his  indifference,  for 
he  could  easily  have  won  a  lucrative  position  in 


New  Suggestions  173 

journalism.  But  he  loved,  above  all  things,  to  work 
freely  and  with  dignity. 

His  disdain  of  life  was  naive:  he  did  not  know 
life,  just  as  one  is  ignorant  of  analytical  chemistry, 
and  he  no  more  felt  the  inclination  to  live  in  the 
modern  fashion  than  to  shut  himself  up  in  a  cellar 
with  retorts;  either  of  these  careers  seemed  equally 
absurd  in  his  estimation.  Some  dream  figures — 
creatures  encountered  in  the  pages  of  Shakespeare 
or  Calderon,  personal  creations — sufficed  to  people 
his  days.  He  considered  his  illusions  the  only  be- 
ings not  endowed  with  the  melancholy  spirit  of  con- 
tradiction; he  loved  them,  and  he  loved  Entragues 
and  all  the  intelligent  persons  who  discussed  things 
politely  and  without  prolixity. 

He  was  said  to  be  as  chaste  as  a  Franciscan  monk : 
he  disclaimed  such  an  eccentricity.  A  pretty  and 
short  love  affair  did  not  displease  him:  he  enjoyed 
a  woman's  grace  more  than  her  beauty,  her  child- 
ishness more  than  her  sex.  He  considered  nervous 
disorders,  so  aggravated  by  the  complacency  of  de- 
teriorated writers,  as  repugnant  maladies  that  were 
anti-harmonious,  and  he  shunned  dark  and  thin 
women,  who  smell  fresh  flesh,  like  the  ogre. 

They  entered,  as  had  been  agreed,  the  home  of 
Entragues,  who  read  the  following  tale  to  his  friend. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    TWENTY-EIGHTH    OF    DECEMBER 

".  .  .  L'une    meurt,    1'autre    vit,    mais    la 
morte  parfois  se  venge  d'etre  morte." 

Anonymous. 

AT  the  corner  of  the  fire-place,  in  the  cool  cham- 
ber, they  were  talking  affectingly,  for  it  was 
the  hour  when  their  closed  lips,  with  a  tacit  agree- 
ment, were  opening  the  door  to  their  emprisoned 
souls.  Sidoine  had  courted  Coquerette  for  two 
months.  He  did  not  speak  to  her  of  earth  and  sky, 
nor  of  the  charming  destiny  of  lovers  who  fly  away 
on  wings,  in  the  estival  purple  of  evenings,  towards 
the  luminous  heights;  he  spoke  to  her  of  new 
dresses  and  the  Auteuil  races,  of  the  Opera,  of  the 
Salon,  of  the  street,  of  the  Boulogne  wood,  and  of 
the  Revue  des  Deux-Mondes:  she  understood  him 
and  found  him  witty. 

Sidoine  amused  himself  in  loving  listlessly.  Hav- 
ing greatly  suffered  during  a  whole  year,  he  felt 
the  need  of  diversion,  of  playing  light-heartedly  and 
of  kissing,  with  a  smile,  a  blond  head  and  two  blue 
eyes. 

Coquerette  also  amused  herself.  She  had  a  hus- 
band, amiable  but  bourgeois,  a  member  of  a  club  of 
174 


The  Twenty-Eighth  of  December     175 

the  second  order  and  of  several  councils.  He  often 
played  baccarat:  cards  were  lenient  with  his  purse 
and  the  Bourse  with  his  pocketbook.  She  did  not 
understand  him,  but  she  respected  him  greatly  and 
in  the  matrimonial  hour  did  not  pout  at  him  more 
than  two  out  of  three  times. 

A  husband  is  a  father,  a  brother;  he  kisses  your 
lips  instead  of  kissing  your  brow;  he  sleeps  with 
you,  because  it  is  customary,  or  because  the  apart- 
ments are  too  small;  and  he  pays  you  an  intimate 
visit  because  you  are  within  easy  reach,  and  you 
must  have  a  child,  or  two,  when  business  is  good. 

A  lover  is  a  child,  something  you  have  yourself 
created,  he  belongs  to  you,  you  can  play  with  him, 
fondle  him,  rock  him,  kiss  him,  beat  him,  console 
him,  caress  him,  punish  him,  scold  him,  deprive 
him  of  dessert,  make  him  hold  pins  when  you  dress, 
send  him  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock. 

You  become  a  little  girl  again,  you  have  a  doll : 
ah !  it  is  altogether  different. 

Coquerette  did  not  have  a  child,  she  wished  to 
play,  and  Sidoine  asked  for  nothing  better. 

The  moment,  however,  was  grave :  they  were  go- 
ing to  pass  to  the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  it  was 
necessary  to  jump  into  the  water  and  swim  to  the 
other  bank,  shoulder  against  shoulder.  Afterwards 
they  bask  in  the  sun  on  the  green  lawn  and,  recov- 
ered from  emotions,  they  enjoy  fine  moments,  gath- 
ering pleasing  flowers ;  and  with  what  delight  they 
return  to  bathe  in  the  river  so  terrible  not  long 
ago,  now  so  gentle,  so  mild,  so  tenderly  murmuring. 


176  Very  Woman 

He  took  Coquerette's  hands  and  began  to  kiss 
her  fingers  one  after  the  other  with  a  gracefulness 
which  charmed  her ;  she  grew  tender  at  such  delicacy 
of  sentiment,  the  poor  darling!  It  did  not  take  a 
much  stronger  wind  to  disperse  the  last  birds  still 
chattering  among  the  branches;  she  suddenly  felt 
her  heart  grow  light,  for  never  had  her  spouse  had 
the  idea  of  such  an  exquisite  caress,  "and  since  he 
never  thought  of  it,  I  really  must  love  another. 
Can  one  reasonably  demand  that  a  woman  deprive 
herself  of  such  delights?  If  my  husband  is  incap- 
able, that  is  not  my  fault!" 

Sidoine  continued,  having  found  this  means  of 
dispensing  with  speech  and  counting  equally  on  find- 
ing, thanks  to  a  few  minutes  of  this  practice,  the 
means  of  dispensing  with  thought. 

He  recommenced  with  the  little  finger  and  Co- 
querette  had  the  enraptured  eyes  of  Psyche  under 
the  first  kiss  of  love. 

Sidoine  kissed  the  little  finger  on  the  second 
phalanx,  for  he  had  distributed  the  round  of  his 
kisses  on  the  nails,  at  first,  then  on  the  first 
joint. 

He  kissed  the  little  finger  and  at  the  same  instant 
there  returned  to  his  lips,  and  this  time  almost  ter- 
rifying, these  syllables  that  had  already  been  in- 
wardly pronounced : 

"The  magnificence !" 

Coquerette  thought  he  said:  "I  love  you,  little 
finger  of  Coquerette,"  and  she  was  content. 

Sidoine  kissed  the  second  joint  of  the  ring-finger 


The  Twenty-Eighth  of  December     177 

of  Coquerette,  and  this  other  word  issued  from  his 
lips: 

"Funereal!" 

Coquerette  thought  he  said :  "I  love  you,  annular 
finger  of  Coquerette,"  and  she  was  content. 

Sidoine  kissed  the  joint  of  the  middle  finger  of 
Coquerette,  and  he  said  nothing. 

Coquerette  thought  the  gentle  familiar  lizard  was 
climbing  along  her  hand,  along  her  wrist,  along 
her  bare  arm:  "Gracious!  how  far  will  he  go?  I 
am  going  to  keep  my  eyes  closed,  I  will  see  very 
well." 

But  the  caress  stopped,  startled;  Sidoine  stood 
up,  pale ;  he  gazed  at  the  bed  as  one  gazes  at  an  un- 
expected and  melancholy  spectacle. 

"The  magnificence  is  funereal,  and  my  heart  is 
terrified." 

The  words  had  joined  and  from  the  magic  union 
was  born  the  real  unity  contained  in  their  elements. 

It  really  was  a  funereal  magnificence : 

Three  wax-tapers  were  lighted  at  the  heads  of 
the  bed  and  in  their  gleam  the  white  figure  seemed 
to  be  smiling  at  angels,  like  little  children  in  their 
cradles.  A  great  black  crucifix  appeared  under  her 
crossed  hands ;  flowers  were  scattered,  roses  on  her 
breast,  lilies  on  her  body  and  violets  at  her  feet. 

"No,  she  is  not  dead!"  cried  Sidoine,  kneeling  near 
his  mistress.  "Speak,  you  are  not  dead?  Open 
your  eyes,  if  you  recognize  me?  What  have  you 
done  ?  Why  these  lights,  why  all  these  flowers,  you 
are  going  to  give  her  a  headache." 


178  Very  Woman 

It  was  just  a  year,  the  twenty-eighth  of  December 
last,  since  he  had  come  to  her  home :  it  was  the  same 
funereal  magnificence  and  he  had  uttered  the  same 
words,  shed  the  same  tears. 

He  took  the  hand  of  the  dead  woman  and  raised 
it  to  his  lips,  but  the  affright  of  a  sudden  shock 
threw  him  to  the  ground :  she  was  cold. 

Coquerette,  her  large  blue  eyes  wide  opened,  had 
followed  with  amazement  the  phases  of  the  terrify- 
ing vision.  She  knew  Sidoine's  history  and  under- 
stood that  a  stroke  of  love  madness  had  touched  her 
friend  at  the -very  hour  of  the  poignant  anniversary. 

The  little  frivolous  and  laughing  woman  felt  a 
strange  thrill.  She  rose  palpitating,  threw  herself 
upon  Sidoine,  as  a  lioness  on  her  prey,  and  bit  him 
on  the  cheek. 

Sidoine  opened  his  eyes : 

"Ah!  you  are  mine,  mine  only,  mine,"  cried  Co- 
querette kissing,  bewildered,  the  impression  of  her 
teeth,  "I  have  marked  you  with  my  sign,  you  belong 
to  me.  I  love  you,  Sidoine,  I  love  you  even  to 
death.  Ah !  I  have  never  felt  anything  like  it !" 

She  lifted  him  up,  made  him  sit  down,  placed 
herself  at  his  feet. 

"She  is  dead,"  said  Sidoine,  still  giddy,  but  re- 
covered, "she  is  dead,  but  I  will  love  her  eternally." 

"And  me?     And  me?" 

Sidoine  did  not  reply. 

"And  me  ?     And  me  ?" 

Sidoine  gently  kissed  her  brow. 

"And  me  ?     And  me  ?" 


The  Twenty-Eighth  of  December     179 

"She  is  dead!"  said  Sidoine. 
"I  will  die,"  said  Coquerette. 
"For  what  reason?"  asked  Sidoine. 
"So  as  to  be  loved,"  said  Coquerette. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    MYSTIC    BARK 

"L'epouvantable  misere  de  ceux  qui  vivent 
sans  amour." 

Rusbrock  1'Admirable,  De  la 
Jouissance  chaste. 

O  you  know,  Madame,  that  Monsieur  Mosco- 
witch  has  the  firm  intention  of  marrying 
you?" 

"That  is  quite  natural." 

"Yes,  but  what  do  you  say  to  it?" 

"It  is  agreeable  to  me." 

"Then,"  asked  Entragues,  "why  did  you  not  let 
me  know?" 

"Ah!  you  would  like  to  have  the  cards  stacked. 
You  do  not  wish  to  waste  your  time  ?  At  first,  not 
any  more  than  yourself,  Monsieur  Moscowitch 
never  asked  more  than  the  pleasure  of  seeing  me." 

"He  is  fascinating." 

"Isn't  he?"  returned  Sixtine.  "He  pleases  me 
very  much  and  I  believe  that  with  him  I  shall  never 
be  bored." 

"Ah!  you  are  quite  perverse,  but  perhaps  that  is 
why  I  love  you." 

"Perverse,  because  I  do  not  wish  to  be  bored!" 

"No,  boredom  is  the  terror  of  every  woman,  and 
180 


The  Mystic  Bark  181 

they  commit  half  of  their  crimes  to  escape  its  claws. 
But  it  is  useless.  Boredom,  impassive,  smokes  his 
houka  and  maintains  his  slaves.  I  well  know  that 
passion  is  stronger  than  he  is,  but  you  are  incap- 
able of  loving." 

*'No  more  than  another,"  Sixtine  nonchalantly 
said,  "and,  besides  all  I  ask  is  to  be  given  the 
chance.  I  have  already  told  you  I  was  dough  wait- 
ing for  the  hands  of  the  kneader;  and,  after  all  I 
can  not  fashion  myself  alone.  But  are  you  coming 
to  warble  such  poor  ditties  of  jealousy,  and  in  such 
a  vulgar  style.  I  believed  you  had  more  disdain 
and  a  richer  vocabulary.  Ah,  fie!  to  sing  such  a 
romanza  to  me :  'You  are  incapable  of  loving.' 
Well,  Monsieur,  to  use  your  language,  I  am  at  least 
capable  of  being  loved.  You  seem  to  think  that 
in  love  there  is  a  category  of  capacities  as  in  the 
time  of  Louis-Philippe  ?  Would  it  be  a  special  string 
that  the  cithara  lacks?  All  the  human  instruments 
are  complete  and  even  women  have  spare  strings, 
if  you  care  to  know.  But  skillful  citharists  are  rare 
and  most  men  only  know  how  to  direct  the  pre- 
liminary chord  of  the  instrument  from  which  they 
pretend  to  draw  music.  Please  speak  to  me  in  the 
language  of  a  logician,  since  that  is  your  intellectual 
profession,  and  do  not  imagine  that  I  am  a  boarding- 
school  girl  who  will  feel  herself  burning  with  love, 
through  a  very  noble  spirit  of  contradiction,  at  the 
very  moment  when  a  man  presents  her  adroit  in- 
aninity:  'You  are  incapable  of  loving.'  For  you 
are  perhaps  very  skillful  and  capable,  oh!  very  cap- 


1 82  Very  Woman 

able  of  demonstrating  the  patent  lack  of  logic  in  my 
feminine  deductions.  But,  question  me!" 

"I  get,"  said  Entragues,  "much  pleasure  in  listen- 
ing to  you.  Your  voice  is  sweet." 

"This  time,"  he  thought,  "thanks  to  the  mutual 
impertinences  with  which  we  are  offending  each 
other,  things  will  end  very  well  or  very  badly. 
She  is  very  much  unnerved  and  my  own  mental  state 
lacks  poise.  We  are  going  to  reach,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
a  surprising  result." 

As  she  was  silent,  he  resumed: 

"There  are  instruments  irremediably  out  of  tune, 
like  those  which  undergo  the  humidity  of  solitude; 
but  it  is  not  such  a  great  disaster — you  have  but 
to  change  the  strings." 

"A  turn  of  the  peg  perhaps  might  suffice,"  said 
Sixtine,  "and  first  of  all,  a  ray  of  sunshine." 

That  word  went  straight  to  his  heart.  Yet  the 
voice  which  had  pronounced  it  was  cold  and  brittle 
with  irony,  but  he  only  kept  its  sense  and  saw  rising 
before  him,  under  the  form  of  a  sorrowful  woman 
with  imploring  gestures,  the  very  figure  of  Abandon- 
ment. Her  fingers  dropped  arrows  at  his  feet,  he 
was  naively  touched : 

"I  have  offended  you,  forgive  me." 

"Yes,"  Sixtine  said,  "you  have  been  spiteful  and 
it  has  hurt  me.  Let  us  become  good  friends,  while 
awaiting  something  better,  if  it  is  to  be  our  destiny 
that  I  put  my  hand  in  your  hand  forever.  But  do 
rot  vent  your  anger  against  a  weak  woman,  unfor- 


The  Mystic  Bark  183 

tunate  enough  already  in  not  knowing  what  she 
wants.  You  have  no  cause  to  be  jealous,  and 
besides,"  she  smiled,  but  not  mischievously,  "you 
have  not  the  right,  my  friend." 

He  had  placed  a  knee  on  the  ground  before  her 
and  held  her  hand  in  his  hands,  without  pressing 
it,  with  precaution,  like  a  fragile  and  precious  porce- 
lain. 

"Here  I  am,"  he  thought,  "in  the  attitude  of  Sido- 
ine  before  Coquerette,  I  have  but  to  bring  these  fingers 
and  nails  to  my  lips  to  complete  the  resemblance, 
making  allowances  for  the  different  natures  of  the 
two  women.  Coquerette,  that  capricious  and  laugh- 
ing child,  might  experience  a  sudden  but  momentary 
change  of  nature.  Her  very  sincere  passion  for 
Sidoine  will  last  as  long  as  Sidoine  does  not  respond 
— perhaps  a  few  days.  As  Sidoine  seeks  no  more  in 
this  pretty  little  woman  than  a  diverting  intrigue, 
he  is  quite  capable  of  yielding  on  the  very  evening, 
despite  the  shocked  nerves,  when  this  would  be 
but  out  of  human  respect.  In  that  case,  Coquerette's 
passion  would  not  be  protracted:  the  wood  would 
blaze  and  quickly  become  a  little  heap  of  ashes. 
But  how  singular!  at  the  very  moment  of  the 
thunderbolt,  and  during  all  those  surprising  elec- 
tric effects,  Coquerette  is  the  woman  to  give  Sidoine, 
if  he  quite  openly  scorned  her,  a  truly  great  and  real 
proof  of  love :  she  would  throw  herself  through 
the  window,  if  no  revolver  came  to  her  hand.  I 
could  write  this  sequel,  or  some  other,  for  there  are 


184  Very  Woman 

two  or  three  equally  logical  denouements  in  every 
love  story  .  .  .  Where  was  I?  Sixtine  is  quite 
different  from  Coquerette  .  .  ." 

A  long  silence  had  followed  the  last  words  of  Six- 
tine,  during  which  Entragues,  without  ceasing  to  be 
absorbedly  interested  in  the  present,  could  never- 
theless not  curb  his  analytical  imagination. 

"I  know  it,  I  know  it  too  well,"  answered  Hu- 
bert between  two  attitudes,  "but  you  say  bitter  things 
with  such  sweetness  and  charm  that  they  delight  me 
like  tender  caresses.  The  future,  where  you  let 
me  glimpse  the  possibility  of  joy,  appears  to  me 
like  the  thought  and  imagination  of  dawn  to  a  poor 
pilgrim  who  has  stayed  too  long  in  the  horrors  of  a 
black  forest  .  .  ." 

"Imagination,  if  such  is  your  pleasure,  my  friend; 
but  strike  and  the  spring  will  gush.  Strike  boldly, 
make  way  to  my  heart,  make  my  blood  flow  like 
a  stream,  and  let  me  fall  into  the  murderer's  arms, 
dying  of  joy  and  dying  of  love.  I  would  like,  I 
would  like  .  .  ." 

"Ah!  tell  me  just  what  I  would  like,"  Sixtine 
continued  inwardly,  "evoke  my  will  before  me,  let 
me  see  it  with  my  eyes,  let  me  touch  it  with  my 
hands.  You  can  do  it,  you  should  be  able,  since 
you  are  a  man!  .  .  ." 

She  waited  a  second :  the  aura  of  a  nervous  stroke 
hovered  nearby  and  played  along  her  spine,  the 
swelling  ball  traveled  along  her  neck;  her  fingers 
thrilled  in  the  hand  of  Entragues,  she  felt  the  im- 


The  Mystic  Bark  185 

perious  necessity  of  shunning  all  contact  and,  sud- 
denly rising,  she  went  to  her  piano  and  feverishly 
played  an  incoherent  piece  of  music  which  saved 
her. 

"She  is  strange,"  thought  Entragues.  "One 
might  say  that  she  was  going  to  let  herself  go  and 
suddenly  she  flies  away  from  peril.  She  never  loses 
her  head  and  I  should  truly  applaud  the  advice  which 
a  diabolic  inspiration  made  me  give  this  poor  Mosco- 
witch.  She  is  not  a  Coquerette,  she  can  master 
herself,  but  on  the  day  when  the  river  shall  have  been 
crossed,  shoulder  against  shoulder,  she  will  be  united 
to  her  lover  as  iron  to  iron  under  the  hammer  of  the 
good  smith: 

Love,  good  smith  of  hearts, 

Hammer,  hammer, 
Hammer  two  by  two  the  hearts, 

Hammer,  hammer, 
Love,  good  smith  of  hearts ! 

He  hummed  this  verse,  improvised  at  the  end  of 
a  rhythm  that  sang  under  Sixtine's  fingers.  Verses, 
welcome  phrases,  fine  periods  rose  to  his  lips  ac- 
cording to  the  cadence  of  the  music  and  with  the 
words  came  ideas,  curious  ideas  with  which  he  had 
no  acquaintance,  plans  of  romances,  metaphysical 
romances,  interesting  views  on  himself,  on  his 
friends,  on  love,  on  politics.  During  the  hour  that 
Sixtine  was  at  the  piano,  he  lived  through  several 
days  of  a  full  deep  life,  and  when  the  music  paused, 
Hubert  felt  a  violent  arrest  of  thought  which  seized 


1 86  Very  Woman 

his  heart  and  brain,  just  as  an  extreme  and  sudden 
transition  from  warm  to  cold  seizes  the  flesh  and 
marrow. 

"Now,"  said  Sixtine,  half  turning  on  her  stool, 
"to  prove  to  you  that  you  are  still  a  person  I  trust, 
despite  your  blunder,  I  will  tell  you  some  fragments 
of  my  life.  Do  not  take  it  for  a  confession,  nor 
for  a  secret,  nor  for  an  avowal;  it  is  nothing  else 
than  goodness  of  heart  on  my  part,  and  the  desire 
to  satisfy  your  curiosity.  I  hardly  like  to  explain 
my  past  miseries,  and  I  really  believe,  besides,  that 
no  one  has  ever  seen  the  spectacle,  unless  it  be  the 
countess  and  a  dead  friend,  dear  and  always  dear  in 
memory,  of  Sixtine  tearing  aside  the  veil  of  Isis." 

"Your  past,"  said  Entragues,  "is  as  sacred  to  me 
as  a  religious  mystery.  I  do  not  question  that  you 
have  always  behaved  like  a  woman  endowed  with 
natural  dignity.  .  .  ." 

"Precisely,"  interrupted  Sixtine,  "I  am  and  was  a 
woman,  and  I  committed  the  crimes  of  a  woman 
who  does  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word 
'duty.'  I  was  taught  it,  I  forgot  it,  never  having 
understood  it." 

"If  you  have  forgotten  it,"  said  Entragues,  "I 
will  not  try  to  have  you  learn  it  anew,  before  know- 
ing you  better.  Duty  for  me  consists  in  doing  my 
work  and  cutting  down  all  the  obstacles  of  life; 
I  do  not  know  what  duty  is  to  another." 

"Yes,  you  are  an  intellectual.  Some  men  are 
and  many  might  become  intellectuals,  but  it  is  not 
possible  for  a  woman.  Those  women  who  have  the 


The  Mystic  Bark  187 

air  of  interesting  themselves  in  things  of  the  mind 
do  so  only  through  pretense  of  imitation.  The 
silver  circle  of  sensation  clasps  them  and  sentiment 
remains  sentiment  to  them.  I  have  been  told  this 
and  you  are  right  in  thinking  that  I  could  not  have 
found  it  out  myself;  besides,  it  is  a  matter  of  in- 
difference to  me,  since,  like  other  women,  I  seek  only 
happiness." 

"And  you  are  not  happy." 

"No,  but  I  can  be.  I  live  for  that :  it  is  my  work, 
I  shall  pursue  it  to  my  last  hour  and  I  am  quite 
tranquil." 

"You  will  give  me  your  secret,"  said  Entragues. 

"In  a  moment,"  said  Sixtine.  "If  an  adventure 
like  the  first  came  to  me,  it  would  be  myself,  not 
the  other,  who  would  die.  You  have  perhaps  learned 
that  when  any  one  speaks  to  me  of  love,  it  is  not 
only  the  peace  of  my  heart  which  is  at  stake,  but  the 
light  of  my  eyes.  This  should  give  me,  I  believe,  the 
right  of  choosing:,  well,  I  will  not  choose.  Thus, 
I  shall  have  nothing  with  which  to  reproach  my- 
self, if  I  am  shipwrecked.  I  shall  have  usurped 
neither  the  speaking-trumpet  nor  the  helm,  I  will  be 
the  passenger  who  sleeps  in  the  ship  and  sails  with 
closed  eyes.  And  to  think,"  she  added,  as  if  speak- 
ing to  herself,  "that  it  needs  but  eight  days  for  me 
to  be  at  sea,  embarked  towards  reefs,  in  a  capsizing 
ship  and  under  an  inexperienced  command !  Isn't 
that  what  awaits  me  ?  I  prefer  therefore  not  to  set 
sail,  life  is  not  painful  to  me;  but  I  shall  depart,  for 
some  one  will  lift  me  from  the  ground  and  some 


1 88  Very  Woman 

one's  arms  .  .  .  whose?  .  .  .  will  place  me  on  the 
cushions  amid  the  rolling  waves.  .  .  .  Ah!  I  am  cap- 
able of  having  a  very  happy  voyage,  a  voyage  of  real 
pleasure  through  oceans  full  of  sunshine  with  a 
calm  and  cool  port,  and  smiles  of  good  souls,  for 
my  destination,  to  the  very  end.  .  .  ." 

"It  shall  be  so,"  said  Entragues. 

The  tragic  simplicity  of  this  woman  who  vouch- 
safed to  confess  herself,  affected  him  as  much  as  a 
beautiful  sunrise  or  as  perfect  prose  in  splendid 
print.  At  this  moment,  he  no  longer  felt  any  love 
for  her ;  the  impression  was  wholly  literary,  and  with 
a  remnant  of  conscience,  he  cursed  himself  for  this 
blasphemy.  Yet  he  noticed  this :  the  metaphorical 
developments  with  which  Sixtine  had  indicated  her 
conception  of  the  future  were  analogous  to  the  im- 
ages which  had  haunted  him  one  day  in  a  similar 
state  of  -mind'.  A  fugitive  state,  doubtless,  but 
one  whose  birth,  though  occasional,  revealed  secret 
agreements  between  their  souls.  If  not  the  joys 
of  union  a  great  devotion  was  at  least  possible,  and 
it  is  much  that  two  beings  be  qualified  for  the  same 
sufferings,  and  that  if  life  strike  one  heart  the 
other  be  wounded.  This  transitory  thought  led  him 
back  to  love :  his  arms,  by  a  sudden  loosened  spring, 
opened  and,  if  she  had  fallen  into  them,  they  would 
have  closed  again  on  the  infinite.  But  he  was  too 
late  by  several  minutes:  there  is  a  very  tiny  space 
between  perceived  sensation  and  analyzed  sensation : 
it  is  there  that  the  ironic  'Too  Late"  dwells. 

Sixtine  answered : 


The  Mystic  Bark  189 

"What  do  you  know  ?  Could  you,  yourself,  prom- 
ise me,  on  your  life,  that  the  morrows  will  not 
bring  me  the  disillusion  of  your  past  days?  Will 
you  make  such  a  promise  ?" 

The  sun  had  had  its  day,  and  the  sky,  by  slow  dim- 
inutions, darkened.  Red,  green  and  yellow  fires 
blazed  on  the  stream. 

Languid  under  its  trappings,  lightly  rocked  by  the 
eddy,  a  slow  bark  drew  near  and  anchored  at  the 
quay.  The  stones  were  all  covered  with  heavy 
rugs,  as  were  the  granite  steps  and  the  pavement  to 
the  foot-path  where  the  carriage  stopped.  Torch 
carriers  lined  the  road  to  the  bark :  by  their  flickering 
flames,  the  golds  and  purples  of  the  draperies  bright- 
ened and  the  water  of  the  river  assumed  the  color 
of  garnets  and  topazes. 

They  were  alone.  Holding  each  other's  hand, 
they  walked  in  silence,  both  garbed  in  black  and 
resembling  shadows. 

When  they  stepped  on  the  plank,  they  looked  and 
smiled  at  each  other.  They  departed  alone,  they 
departed  together,  and  yet  each  saw  in  the  other's 
eye  the  melancholy  of  voyagers. 

The  bark  put  to  sea,  the  torches  were  extinguished  : 
in  the  night  there  was  again  but  one  lantern  on  the 
water  of  the  stream. 

"Yes,"  said  Entragues. 

Sixtine   shuddered. 

"Yes,"  repeated  Entragues,  "if  you  love  me!" 

Sixtine  continued : 


190  Very  Woman 

"There's  a  story  intermingled  with  much  prat- 
tling ...  I  am  speaking  for  myself." 

"I  deserve  my  part  of  the  blame,"  returned  En- 
tragues. 

And  to  himself  he  added: 

"If  you  love  me!  I  have  the  air  of  laying  down 
my  conditions.  What  cowardice  made  me  pronounce 
these  humiliating  syllables!  I,  too,  have  spoiled 
everything.  I  had  only  to  say  'yes' !  And  that  was 
my  whole  thought,  it  was  my  true  thought.  Yet 
I  love  you,  Sixtine,  I  really  love  you  without  condi- 
tions, you  see !  Ah !  you  will  end  by  understanding 
it." 

Sixtine  observed  him: 

"Ah!  my  poor  friend,  will  you  never  understand 
me,  then?" 

She  said  loud: 

"But  we  must  end  ...  It  is  because  I  have  some 
modesty  in  baring  myself  in  this  way  .  .  .  After 
all  ...  No,  enough  for  to-day  .  .  .  another  time 
.  .  .  Please  leave  me,  now,  if  you  wish  to  please 
me  ...  without  questions  .  .  .  and  without  fear 
.  .  .  you  will  come  to-morrow.  Good-by,  my 
friend." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  SIMONIAC 

"La  malle  bouche,  elle  a  este  si  traistre 
Qu'elle  a  baise  et  vendu  nostre  maistre." 

Charles  de  la  Huetrie,  Contrcblason 
de  la  Bouche. 

HUBERT  had  no  desire  whatever  to  think,  but 
it  is  not  given  to  all  persons  to  be  able  to 
regulate  cerebral  activity  and  to  dismiss  the  serious 
affairs  until  the  morrow.  Neither  the  reading  of  a 
naturalistic  novel,  nor  meditation  upon  the  most 
abtruse  propositions  and  scholia  of  the  contem- 
porary thinkers,  nor  the  contemplation  of  the  eternal 
verities,  prevented  him  from  bewailing  his  recent 
foolish  behavior. 

Ah!  how  well  he  judged  things  from  a  distance, 
how  well  he  saw  what  he  should  have  done.  No 
one  had  to  a  higher  degree  his  presence  of  mind  at 
the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

Immediate  analysis  was  always  slightly  confused 
'and  did  not  force  any  precise  conclusions.  Without 
doubt,  it  was  always  three  or  four  minutes  after  the 
occasion  had  passed  that  he  was  able  to  unravel  the 
thoughts  and  the  mental  reservations  of  his  partner, 
and  by  the  forth  minute  he  already  knew  what  he 
191 


1 92  Very  Woman 

should  have  done  at  the  first  second,  but  he  never 
knew  it  so  pertinently  as  after  a  night's  sleep. 

No  disturbance  of  his  heart  had  ever  prevented 
him  from  sleeping;  he  thanked  heaven  for  having 
granted  him  lucid  mornings. 

The  more  he  thought,  this  morning,  the  more  the 
moving  sands  of  indecision  shifted. 

Having  taken  an  awkward  step,  he  had  seen  how 
pernicious  action  had  proved  to  him;  to  wait  was 
sterile :  it  is  like  the  sower  of  pebbles  who,  pausing 
along  the  fields  in  spring,  is  astonished  not  to  see 
any  germination. 

"Well,"  thought  Hubert,  "one  cannot  know,  every- 
thing happens  and  the  absurd  especially.  I  should 
be  pleased  if  some  miracle  would  occur  in  my  favor. 
We  shall  see  this  evening,  and,"  he  added,  smiling  at 
himself,  "the  following  days." 

Impatient  for  the  night,  and  fearing  the  surliness 
of  the  hours,  he  went  out  in  search  of  casual 
diversion. 

The  street  was  inclement.  The  quays,  swept  by 
a  sharp  and  humid  wind,  stood  out  gloomily  under 
their  closed  boxes,  truly  an  unfavorable  sight  to 
those  restless  plunderers  of  knowledge.  What  be- 
comes of  the  disconsolate  vagabonds,  amateurs  of 
printed  foolishness,  in  those  days  of  enforced 
idleness?  He  perceived  one,  with  sad  eyes  and 
weary  movements,  who  was  examining  the  sky, 
holding  out  against  the  storm  and  waiting  for  a  lull. 
Entragues  knew  him:  he  was  an  old  man  of  letters 


The  Simoniac  193 

who  spent  his  days  here.  No  book  was  unknown 
to  him,  he  dipped  into  all  of  them,  saluted  them 
with  a  smile,  but  purchased  only  those  which  con- 
cerned the  Auvergne,  his  native  country.  In  a 
vast  garret  he  had  fifteen  thousand  books  of  this 
kind  and  did  not  despair  of  doubling  the  number. 

Entragues  wished  to  lead  him  away  from  these 
desolate  banks;  he  resisted,  like  a  lover  who  has 
decided  to  sleep  across  the  bolted  door  of  his  mis- 
tress. 

This  constancy  pleased  Entragues. 

"Just  come  as  far  as  the  rue  de  Richelieu.  There 
is  a  big  Moorish  room  where  you  can  also  find 
some  books,  and  you  are  in  shelter." 

"Yes,  it  is  all  right,  but  you  can't  take  them  with 
you." 

Entragues  left  him  at  this  word  whose  bitter- 
ness he  understood,  for  he  too  belonged  to  those 
who  can  only  read  with  pleasure  the  books  that  one 
owns.  Books,  women,  pictures,  horses,  statues 
and  the  rest,  the  very  grass  and  trees  and  everything 
one  enjoys  can  only  be  half -en  joyed  if  it  is  not 
owned.  That  explains  the  little  success  of  muse- 
ums, usually  deserted  except  on  rainy  Sundays; 
a  great  indifference  or  a  great  detachment  is  nces- 
sary  to  bestow  enthusiastic  feelings  on  the  contem- 
plation of  a  picture  which  an  imbecile  glance  will 
pollute  the  moment  after. 

Rue  de  Richelieu  has  a  special  atmosphere 
which  can  only  be  breathed  there.  As  soon  as  one 


194  Very  Woman 

enters,  a  little  chill  strikes  the  hands  and  feet,  and 
once  installed  in  the  chair  and  in  a  numbered  place, 
one  feels  the  cruel  feverish  embraces  of  books. 

Entragues  could  not  remain  seated.  He  walked 
along  the  aisle,  examining  the  heads  at  his  right 
and  the  books  at  his  left.  Evidently,  all  those 
heads  believed  in  knowledge  and  came  here  to  im- 
bibe books,  in  which — as  one  knows — all  knowl- 
edge is  contained.  Pliny,  too,  believed  in  knowl- 
edge, and  Paracelsus,  and  Erasmus,  and  Salmasius, 
and  where  is  their  knowledge,  Villon!  It  is  where 
your  verses  shall  never  go,  poor  scholar !  You 
knew,  and  among  other  things  you  knew  that  who- 
ever dies,  "dies  in  grief."  Work,  work  and  some 
day  knowledge,  like  gall,  will  rend  your  heart. 
Work,  if  it  is  necessary  to  live;  that  is  an  excuse, 
although,  according  to  a  certain  preface,  one  must 
not  attach  too  much  value  to  one's  daily  bread. 
But,"  continued  Entragues,  "must  humanity  grow 
weary  intentionally  so  that  there  may  be  amateurs 
of  labor!" 

"What,  you,  Oury?  I  thought  you  were  in  the 
provinces." 

"I  made  for  myself,"  answered  Oury,  "a  cor- 
ner of  the  provinces  in  Paris,  and  as  you  see  I 
am  alive,  or  at  least  I  appear  to  be  so." 

"And  what  are  you  doing?" 

"Nothing." 

"What  do  you  mean,  nothing?  when  I  find  you 
leaning  against  the  big  catalogues !" 


The  Simoniac  195 

"I  came  here  to  rest  my  eyes  a  little,  for  I  do 
not  work,  I  watch  others  work." 

"Ah!" 

"Yes,  I  come  here  each  noon  and  remain  till 
closing  time.  In  summer  this  takes  place  at  six 
o'clock,  so  I  do  a  good  day's  work.  In  winter  I 
have  hardly  time  to  install  myself." 

"And  you  do  nothing?" 

"No,  I  wait.  I  am  like  the  scholar  in  the  leg- 
end: I  wait  until  the  others  leave." 

"My  dear  Oury,  your  psychology  is  really  in- 
teresting. 'I  wait  until  the  others  leave!'  Your 
device  is  the  very  device  of  humanity.  It  is  admir- 
able, it  is  the  scheme  of  life.  You  are  a  man,  Oury, 
you  are  the  man,  you  are  symbolic." 

"Perhaps,  but  I  do  not  get  any  vanity  from  the 
fact.  Yet  my  existence  is  singular  and  I  imagine 
that  few  creatures  will  have  lived  whole  days  so 
destitute  of  incidents.  Sit  down  and  we  will  talk; 
I  really  can  sacrifice  an  hour  or  two  to  an  old 
friend." 

Entragues  willingly  consented. 

"You  thought  that  I  was  in  the  provinces?" 
commenced  Oury.  "I  am  a  man  who  has  disap- 
peared, but  not  a  provincial.  Do  you  see  that  gray- 
haired,  very  amiable  man  down  there,  at  the  desk. 
I  bow  to  him,  he  smiles  and  offers  me  a  little  paper 
which  I  take.  I  also  smile,  for  this  paper  which 
is  used  to  ask  for  a  book  is  useless  to  me.  I  do 
not  come  here  to  work,  but  to  watch  others  work. 


196  Very  Woman 

"I  spend  five  or  six  agreeable  hours  here. 

"It  is  quite  different  at  home  in  the  morning. 
Time  creeps  like  a  serpent,  writhes,  yawns,  bites 
me,  instills  me  with  the  cataleptic  venom  of  bore- 
dom. 

"I  sometimes  open  my  window  in  fine  weather 
and  gaze  upon  the  distant  trees ;  other  mornings  I 
read  Ronsard.  Time  goes !  time  goes !  No,  it  lies 
heavy,  useless  and  tenacious. 

"I  had  two  or  three  months  of  respite,  several 
years  ago. 

Paint  me,  Janet,  the  beauties  of  my  darling. 

"I  set  out  in  quest  of  this  visionary  portrait. 
Why  had  Thomas  de  Leu  not  engraved  it?  He  is 
without  an  equal  in  frilling  a  starched  collar,  in 
lengthening  ferociously  the  face  of  a  leaguer,  but 
delicately  that  of  a  princess.  As  this  picture  does 
not  exist,  and  I  knew  it  did  not  exist,  I  sought  it 
perseveringly,  for  I  was  at  least  sure  of  never  touch- 
ing the  final  disillusion  with  my  finger. 

"But  my  weary  steed  staggered;  a  whip  lashed 
his  croup;  I  found  my  princess,  painted  by  Janet, 
in  the  Louvre.  I  recognized  her  by  her  long  and 
pale  figure,  her  almond  eyes,  her  large  white  col- 
lar, her  slender  shape  made  still  more  delicate  by 
a  pointed  bodice,  her  Mary  Stuart  chapeau,  her 
gray  gloves,  her  gauntlets,  her  undeniable  Ren- 
aissance air.  I  fell  in  love  with  her. 

"As  I  am  quite  regular  in  my  habits,  the  princess 
never  failed  to  appear  on  the  mornings  that  fol- 
lowed the  first  vision.  She  was  ever  the  same, 


The  Simoniac  197 

ever  the  princess.  She  entered  the  Louvre,  I  un- 
fortunately went  to  the  library,  for  I  could  neither 
stop  myself  nor  follow  her,  so  that  it  was  a  long 
time  before  I  knew  if  it  was  a  hallucination  or  the 
tangible  reality  of  a  woman  endowed  with  flesh  and 
bones. 

"We  left  each  other  under  the  vault  where  the 
Egyptian  and  Assyrian  perspectives  are  situated: 
she  entered  by  the  right  and  I  continued  on  my  way. 
I  might  have  entered  and  followed  her,  doubtless, 
but  the  hours  spent  here  are  sacred  to  me :  it  is  true 
that  I  do  not  work,  but  I  might  work:  I  wish,  at 
least,  to  preserve  the  possibility  of  the  duty.  All 
that  is  left  of  my  will  has  been  transmuted  into  hab- 
its: to  snap  the  thread  would  be  to  resolve  the 
series  of  learned  movements  into  an  eternal  immo- 
bility. 

"You  see  that  I  know  myself  somewhat.  The 
more  I  go  on,  the  more  I  lack  initial  force.  I  can 
continue  anything,  I  can  commence  nothing.  Be- 
tween the  will  and  the  act  is  a  hollow  ditch  into 
which  I  would  fall  if  I  attempted  to  leap  it:  it  is 
a  physical  impression. 

"One  day,  finally,  my  princess  appeared  in  a  Van 
Dyck  hat  which  threw  very  ugly  shadows  on  her 
white  figure:  farewell  to  my  princess  painted  by 
Janet!  She  was  a  woman  like  all  other  women 
and  could  not,  decidedly,  atone  for  this  fault  by 
any  other  merit. 

"That  is  my  adventure. 

"I  find  that  life,   at  bottom,   is  quite  tolerable 


198  Very  Woman 

after  the  noon  hour.  I  wait  for  inspiration,  I  watch 
others  work,  and  that  is  an  occupation." 

"It  is  an  occupation,"  said  Entragues.  "Good- 
by.  Are  you  not  coming  out  with  me?" 

"Oh,  no,"  Oury  replied,  "it  is  impossible.  Not 
before  four  o'clock." 

Entragues  left  him  and  continued  his  walk,  seek- 
ing some  head  familiar  to  his  eyes  among  the  bowed 
skulls.  Vain  search!  Then  he  withdrew  alone, 
without  the  companion  he  would  have  liked,  and 
strolled  up  the  street  as  far  as  the  boulevard.  Oury 
had  thrown  a  gloom  over  him. 

Entragues  was  afraid  of  growing  indifferent  be- 
cause of  the  confidences  of  this  sad  invalid,  once 
an  intelligent  boy  whom  his  friends  had  thought 
destined  to  write  interesting  retrospective  criticism, 
a  sort  of  history  of  the  Pleiade,  less  puerile  and 
braver  than  that  of  the  doleful  Sainte-Beuve.  These 
sicknesses  of  the  will  were  contagious:  he  decided 
to  shun  this  intellectual  leper  and  abolish  at  once 
all  remembrance  of  the  meeting.  A  like  malady 
might  entrap  his  nerves  and  lay  low  his  will  in  the 
beaten  path  of  habit ;  he  was  not  eager  for  a  so- 
journ, not  even  for  a  tourist's  excursion,  within 
the  borders  of  madness. 

He  sauntered  along,  visited  some  editorial  offices 
in  search  of  Van  Bae'l,  whom  he  wished  to 
consult  on  a  detail  of  costume,  passed  a  half  hour 
in  an  auction  room  where  he  bought  some  ancient 
silks  and  a  lot  of  faded  church  ornaments,  ugly, 
but  sacred  and  smelling  of  simony. 


The  Simoniac  199 

A  simoniac  priest  had  haunted  him  for  years; 
his  was  a  lean  face  with  malignant  eyes,  a  rigid 
skeleton-like  body,  long  hands,  white  hands,  supple 
hands  with  square  nails,  hands  of  a  seller  of  stuffs, 
hands  of  one  who  blesses,  hands  of  a  Jew  quickly 
returned  into  the  cloak  with  the  prize  of  blood.  In 
what  century  and  country  lived  he? 

"To  reach  some  appropriateness  of  analysis," 
thought  Entragues,  while  returning  to  his  dwelling, 
a  chasuble  on  his  knees  and  a  great  heap  of  sacer- 
dotal embroideries  filling  the  rest  of  the  carriage, 
"to  instill  true  life  into  this  simoniac,  he  should 
be  modern.  It  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  be 
able  to  enter  into  his  church,  take  a  seat  some  eve- 
ning and  kneel  down  in  his  confessional,  drinking 
the  wine  from  his  chalice  and  taking  the  conse- 
crated wafers  from  his  pyx.  Like  him  I  would 
have  to  be  simoniacal  and  sacrilegious,  Ah !  what  a 
test!  and  like  him  I  would  have  to  feel  the  irrevoc- 
able damnation  and  daily  glorify  myself  with  the 
opprobrious  secret  of  my  lies !" 

Sixtine  came  to  his  rescue :  the  red  robe  rid  him 
of  the  black  robe. 

The  hour  of  the  meeting,  given  the  evening  be- 
fore, rang. 

"Madame  has  gone  out!" 

"Ah!" 

That  was  all.     Why  even  open  the  mouth  again? 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  ADORER 

III.    Fumes  of  Incense 
"II  y  a  un  secret,  Valerien,  que  je  veux 
te  dire;  j'  ai  pour  amant  un  ange  de  Dieu, 
qui,   avec   une   extreme  jalousie,   veille   sur 
mon  corps." 

Breviare  remain,  Office  de 
sainte  Cecile. 

"PTT^  HE  incense!     The  incense! 

"What  incense  there  is  in  the  censers! 

"What  fumes  there  are  in  the  incense! 

"That  cloud  is  pagan,  Virgin!  Fie!  to  hide 
yourself  in  a  cloud  in  order  to  love.  But  why?  I 
see  the  wings  of  the  angel  whose  whiteness  shines 
under  the  fragrant  cloud.  It  is  with  this,  with  so 
little,  Virgin!  fie!  that  he  has  intoxicated  you  to 
possess  you.  And  you  smile  at  him,  I  see  your 
eyes  whose  splendor  shines  under  the  fragrant 
cloud,  in  the  shadow  of  the  white  wings. 

"Thou,  the  immaculate!  And  for  whom  is  so 
much  purety  sullied?  For  an  angel?" 

"You  fancied  it  was  the  Holy  Spirit?" — "Yes, 
the  dove  pecked  my  lips  and  I  opened  my  lips  and 
I  gave  him  the  end  of  my  tongue.  I  speak  of  the 
past.  It  was  very  pleasant  and  I  have  always 
wanted  to  begin  again." 


The  Adorer  201 

"Ah!  Virgin,  fie,  you  lie  like  a  woman.  Doves 
have  no  such  large  wings." — "They  are  the  wings 
of  my  mantle." 

"Ah?  Virgin!  Fie!  doves  have  not  light  feath- 
ers."— "But  they  have,  they  have!  And  besides 
they  are  not  light,  figliuolo,  they  are  shot-color." 

Such  aplomb  confused  Delia  Preda.  What!  a 
Virgin  in  whom  he  had  placed  his  whole  confidence, 
sub  tuum  praesidium! 

The  colloquy  was  resumed  in  this  fashion : 

"Ah!  Virgin!  Fie!  think  of  your  family,  think 
of  your  chaste  spouse!  think  of  your  son!  think 
of  God  the  father!  Do  you  wish  to  dishonor  the 
creator  of  heaven  and  earth?  What  will  become 
of  us,  if  you  awaken  his  wrath?  It  is  always  on 
us,  poor  mortals,  that  his  wrath  falls,  and  we  will 
have  the  plague  again." — "Ecce  ancilla  Domini!  my 
friend.  I  am  under  the  orders  of  the  Most  High, 
and  what  if  it  pleases  him  to  send  me  an  angel?" 

Delia  Preda  did  not  know  what  reply  to  make, 
for  he  was  too  religious  to  question  the  eternal 
decrees.  He  contented  himself  with  remarking  to 
the  madonna  that  if  the  Most  High  had  sent  her 
an  angel,  it  was  not  apparently  to  have  love  with 
him. 

"Ah!  Good  Lord!"  the  Novella  cried. 

"Moreover,"  continued  Delia  Preda,  "I  am  at 
peace,  for  the  angels  have  no  sex.  It  is  merely  play. 
Ah,  well!  the  question  is  controverted." 

"Ah !  Good  Lord !  Ah !  Good  Lord !"  the  Novella 
cried. 


2O2  Very  Woman 

"Thus,  Saint  Ambrose,  who  has  discussed  angels 
at  some  length,  does  not  pronounce  himself  in  a 
peremptory  way.  He  notes  that  some,  having 
transgressed,  were  thrust  'into  the  world'  and  re- 
placed in  the  celestial  concert  by  the  most  meritor- 
ious virginities.  How  did  they  transgress,  and 
must  not  this  expression  mean  the  flesh?  .  .  ." 

"Ah !  my  angel !"  the  Novella  cried. 

"Or  perhaps  they  are  epicene,  like  their  name. 
This  opinion  was  sustained  but  I  believe  it  heretical, 
for  these  vases  of  purity,  finding  themselves  en- 
dowed with  two  sexes,  would  have  too  many  tempta- 
tions. Tertullian,  as  well  as  Origen,  grants  them 
a  body :  I  know  that  to  be  so,  and  I  see  what  pro- 
fane use  they  make  of  it. 

"Ah !  I  am  about  to  lose  all  my  illusions  concern- 
ing angels :  I  must  submit  the  case  to  the  padre  who 
taught  me  theology.  .  .  . 

"If  I  call  to  mind  my  prayer-book,  is  it  not  writ- 
ten in  the  service  of  Saint-Cecilia:  'Valerian 
found  Cecilia  supplicating  with  an  angel  in  her  bed. 
Cecilia,  moreover,  had  informed  him  beforehand: 
'There  is  a  secret,  Valerian,  I  wish  to  tell  thee:  I 
have  an  angel  of  God  for  a  lover;  he  watches  over 
my  body  with  an  extreme  jealousy.'  Yes,  I  have 
read  this  in  my  prayer-book,  in  those  holy  pages 
where  disrespect  should  not  even  appear.  I  read 
about  holy  loves,  and  of  saints  also,  without  a  doubt, 
and  these  things  oppress  my  heart.  Pardon,  ma- 
donna! Nevertheless  you  make  me  suffer  and  you 
make  me  weep;  I  no  longer  dare,  ashamed  of  the 


The  Adorer  203 

spectacle  which  has  disturbed  my  soul,  lift  my  rude 
eyes  towards  your  beatified  eyes.  You  do  what 
you  wish,  being  a  queen,  and  my  only  duty  is  to 
love,  to  suffer  and  to  die  if  you  so  order  it. 

"I  do  not  understand  at  all,  but  what  matter? 
Do  I  understand  the  mystery  of  the  Holy  Trinity? 

"If  you  have  chosen,  like  the  charming  and  blest 
maiden,  an  angel  for  lover,  it  is  because  it  is  the 
function  of  angels  to  be  the  lovers  of  virgins:  it 
was  so  ordained  by  the  Lord  for  all  eternity. 

"And  I,  I  am  unworthy ;  my  body  is  soiled,  twice 
soiled :  since  the  baptism  of  your  love,  madonna,  the 
carnal  seductions  have  prevailed  over  the  grace 
which  your  intercession  had  granted  me. 

"To  a  woman,  and  what  a  woman !  to  an  infidel, 
and  what  an  infidel!  I  have  betrayed  my  body  that 
had  been  regenerated  by  the  condescension  of  your 
gaze,  lavished  by  your  tears,  purified  by  your  smile, 
as  a  scabious  rag  by  the  running  of  the  stream  and 
by  the  rays  of  sunshine. 

"You  have  punished  me,  madonna,  but  should  I 
moan,  since  I  myself  have  supplicated  you  to  whip 
my  shoulders  with  the  rod.  You  have  punished  me 
well,  thanks  ...  I  hate  you  now,  impure  and  per- 
jured Virgin! 

"Dream  that  I  love  you  for  your  immaculate 
candor,  and  that  your  virginal  skin  is  spotted  with 
ineffable  stains.  .  .  ." 

"It  can  no  longer  be  seen,"  the  Virgin  said,  "I 
have  a  new  robe." 

"My  lord,"  said  Veltro,  bowing  to  the  prisoner, 


2O4  Very  Woman 

"the  ceremony  is  ended  and  we  must  return.  I  have 
taken  it  upon  myself  to  prolong  the  minutes,  but 
orders,  my  lord,  orders  ...  all  the  same,  the 
crowning  of  a  madonna  is  a  fine  holiday.  The 
Novella  is  crowned  every  year  at  Assumption,  and 
her  red  robe  is  changed  at  the  same  time;  it  is  the 
custom.  The  little  poor  girls  are  given  the  old 
gown  and  dresses  are  made  of  it.  And  how  proud 
the  little  rascals  are;  after  all,  it  is  the  custom,  you 
see!" 

"Another  moment,  Veltro,  please,  my  friend?" 
After  Delia  Preda  had  raised  his  eyes  and  saw 
the  Novella  face  to  face,  radiant  in  her  new  purple 
and  without  the  vail  of  any  cloud,  his  anguish  and 
bewilderment  subsided.  All  he  felt  was  the  agita- 
tion that  follows  an  evil  dream,  like  a  persistent 
odor,  but  suddenly  the  sensation  of  blasphemy 
struck  him ;  it  was  dim  and  violent :  he  swooned 
and  Veltro  took  him  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE    COLOR   OF  MARRIAGE 

"The  dotal  husband  owes  his  wife  three 
nights  each  month." 

Attic  Laws. 

OOD,"  Entragues  said,  as  he  heard  the  bell 
ring.  "It  is  the  Russian  angel  .  .  .  Ah !  I 
have  written  a  fine  blasphemy !  '.  .  .  in  his  arms.' 
And  to  think  that  for  want  of  understanding,  people 
will  tax  me  with  impiety,  I  who  make  the  Roman 
breviary  my  daily  reading  no  less  than  a  clergyman 
who  holds  the  name  of  Voltaire  as  an  infamous 
word." 

"My  dear  Moscowitch,  I  made  you  wait.  The 
reason  was  that  I  was  finishing  a  phrase  and  that 
this  phrase  ended  a  chapter." 

The  Russian  angel  drank  tea  while  Entragues 
breakfasted.  He  spoke  little,  seeming  to  hold  him- 
self in  reserve. 

"Have  you  your  manuscripts,  your  plans,  your 
theories?"  asked  Entragues. 

"My  theory,"  said  Moscowitch,  "is  to  make  a 
school  of  pity  out  of  the  theater." 

"Orphans,  bastards,  picked  up  children,  widows, 
persons  condemned  to  death,  serfs  of  capital,  girl 
205 


2o6  Very  Woman 

mothers,  invalids  of  labor,  vagabonds  and  victims 
of  duty.  Well!  by  dressing  them  in  Russian 
smocks,  by  giving  the  men  names  ending  in  itch 
and  the  women  names  ending  in  ia,  with  some 
troikas  thrown  in,  snow,  Siberia,  a  priest  or  two, 
policemen  in  flat  caps,  some  angelic  street-walkers, 
and  a  studied  selection  of  Darwinian  assassins,  one 
can  write  masterpieces,  true  masterpieces,  while — 
and  here  you  see  what  fortune  hangs  on — were 
these  same  tatters  passed  under  a  French  dye,  the 
most  respectable  manufacturers  and  the  most  in- 
fluential tradesmen,  men  wearing  the  ribbon,  people 
who  have  country  homes  at  Ville-d'Avray,  would  not 
dare  to  place  them  in  their  shop-windows." 

"Why?"  Moscowitch  asked. 

"Because  it  would  not  be  profitable." 

"I  believe,"  said  Moscowitch,  "that  you  are 
laughing  at  me  now." 

"Aren't  you  rich?  Then  raillery  cannot  touch 
you.  In  France  it  is  impossible  to  laugh  at 
riches,  this  impiety  is  forbidden  by  our  adulatory 
customs.  Yet,  if  you  had  talent,  the  common  law 
would  get  possession  of  you :  until  then,  be  content 
and  walk  with  a  high  head." 

They  entered  the  Revue  speculative.  The  pres- 
entation of  Moscowitch  caused  ncr  curiosity.  For- 
tier  was  amiable  and  Van  Bae'l,  absent-minded. 
Yet  when,  prompted  by  Entragues,  he  declared : 
"I  wish  to  regenerate  the  theater  through  pity," 
eyes  were  uplifted  and  Renaudeau,  diverted,  dragged 
him  to  the  stake.  It  was  one  of  the  most  amusing 


The  Color  of  Marriage  207 

courses  of  dramatic  history  ever  given  for  the  in- 
struction of  a  beginner.  Renaudeau  cited  names 
that  no  one  had  ever  heard  of,  and  Moscowitch 
took  notes,  promised  to  read,  and  thanked  him. 

This  facile  irony  irritated  Van  Bae'l,  who  with  a 
tone  of  superiority  took  the  Russian  under  his  pro- 
tection, gave  him  some  good  advice,  and  finally  two 
or  three  quite  useless  letters  of  introduction  to  di- 
rectors who  never  opened,  naturally,  their  doors  to 
strangers. 

"Ah!  here  is  the  Marquise!"  said  Fortier,  as  a 
woman  with  an  extravagant  dress  entered.  Her 
temples  confessed  that  she  had  passed  the  fortieth 
year.  She  was  strapped  in  a  black  bodice  studded 
by  way  of  buttons  with  authentic  old  silver  coins; 
a  collar  with  similar  medals  on  her  neck,  her  curled 
hair,  dyed  a  rose-colored  blond,  falling  on  her  shoul- 
ders ;  a  hat  a  la  Longueville  bristling  with  rebellious 
plumes;  bracelets  as  far  as  her  elbows  under  her 
large  sleeves ;  a  heavy  furred  gown,  opened  and 
thrown  back,  behind  which  the  two  plates  of  a  clasp 
as  large  as  two  shields  were  suspended  as  far  as  the 
neck.  She  raised  her  curving  nose  and  fixed  on 
Fortier  her  impudent  eyes  of  a  woman  who  has 
thumbed,  without  omitting  one  single  ^page,  the 
album  of  lust.  She  spoke  affectedly: 

"My  dear  Fortier,  and  my  Lausim?" 

"Madame,  I  should  love  to  be  yours,"  Fortier 
said. 

Her  eyes  responded  with  lightning  rapidity: 

"I  accept." 


2o8  Very  Woman 

She  said : 

"Now,  you  have  promised  me  proofs  for  this 
week." 

While  Fortier  was  trying  to  convince  her  that  the 
Revue  speculative  was  unworthy  of  her  qualities, 
that  money,  rare  everywhere,  had  a  sort  of  dread 
of  his  till,  Moscowitch  asked : 

"Who  is  this  woman?" 

"They  call  her  the  Marquise,  why  I  do  not  know. 
Her  coins  have  earned  her  better  names :  the  Medal 
Cabinet,  and  this  one,  the  Reliquary,  most  cruel 
of  all.  Then,  as  she  signs  herself  'Framboise'  to 
kitchen  recipes,  Renaudeau  has  nicknamed  her  'Fran- 
goise  the  Blue-Stocking.  She  probably  has  a  real 
name ;  it  is  either  ordinary  or  insignificant." 

"To  think  that  at  my  age,"  Renaudeau  said,  "I 
have  never  seen  any  blue  stockings.  The  modistes 
wear  them  red  most  often,  and  it  is  among  them 
I  have  my  loves." 

"Red?     I,  too,"  the  Marquise  said. 

She  camped  her  foot  on  a  chair,  lifting  her  petti- 
coat as  far  as  the  garter. 

The  leg  was  still  pretty  and  her  repartee  clever. 

Renaudeau,  confessing  himself  outflanked  by  the 
movement,  bowed  and  assumed  the  air  of  one  wish- 
ing to  say,  "I  regret  I  can  do  no  more." 

"And  I,  too,"  the  eyes  of  the  Marquise  answered. 

Having  bowed,  not  without  a  certain  ironic  charm, 
she  departed,  certain  now  that  her  article  would  be 
accepted. 


The  Color  of  Marriage  209 

Fortier  chided  his  secretary.  She  had  paid  with 
her  person,  payment  signed  and  received.  Her 
prose  could  no  longer  be  refused ;  but  she  should  get 
no  money. 

"Renaudeau,  you  must  sacrifice  yourself." 

"Well,"  said  Renaudeau,  "this  jade  is  full  of 
surprises.  I  accept." 

Moscowitch,  very  much  astonished,  found  these 
customs  singular.  He  asked  Entragues : 

"And  will  this  woman's  article,  even  if  wretched, 
appear  in  the  Revue  simply  because  she  has  shown 
her  leg?" 

"Yes,"  Entragues  answered  distractedly,  for  he 
reflected,  while  listening  to  Moscowitch's  question, 
how  dangerous  such  a  profoundly  naive  man  might 
be.  "He  must  be  full  of  spontaneity,  like  a  con- 
cealed spring  which  the  blow  of  a  pickax  puts 
in  motion.  Some  day  Sixtine  will  wound  his 
heart  and  violent  effusions  of  love  will  burst  forth 
from  the  wound.  It  would  be  well  to  watch  him, 
to  infuse  him  with  literary  distraction.  This  would 
be  a  way :  have  him  understand  that  he  has  genius, 
that  he  owes  it  to  himself,  to  his  two  fatherlands, 
to  humanity,  not  to  put  the  marvelous  plant  in 
jeopardy,  the  plant  which  .  .  .  which  .  .  .  God, 
Nature,  Glory  and  other  entities  ...  I  am  not  at 
all  jealous  .  .  .  my  chapter  cured  me  of  jealousy 
this  morning.  I  have  tortured  Delia  Preda  and  the 
tormentor  has  let  fall  the  pincers  which  tortured 
my  flesh  .  .  .  not  jealous,  but  uneasy.  In  short, 


2io  Very  Woman 

it  is  a  question  of  myself,  I  have  incorporated 
Sixtine  into  my  life.  If  she  is  taken  away,  I  am 
mutilated." 

"Indeed,"  he  told  Moscowitch,  as  there  entered 
a  lean,  insipid-looking  person,  whose  eyes  were 
terrified  by  apocalyptic  visions,  "here  is  a  type  worth 
observing.  It  is  in  vain  for  you  to  have  talent, 
and  even  more  than  talent  (good) ,  my  dear  friend 
(these  familiar  words  give  value  to  the  compliment, 
by  clothing  it  with  sincerity),  yes,  despite  my  inclina- 
tion to  irony  I  must  end  by  confessing  the  impres- 
sion you  have  made  on  me  (his  eyes  light  up),  yes, 
more  than  talent  (the  flower  expands:  open,  pre- 
cious Hower  of  vanity,  exhale  thy  heady  odor,  intoxi- 
cate him!)  .  .  .  well,  nothing  must  be  neglected  .  .  . 
observation  ...  the  little  characteristic  facts  .  .  . 
these  nothings  which,  capitalized,  give  a  drama, 
just  as  a  novel,  an  inimitable  air  of  real  Truth 
(apostate)  .  .  .  Truth  .  .  .  my  dear  .  .  .  the  truth 
(a  ladder  would  be  needed  to  paint  on  the  curtain  of 
nothingness  the  capital  belonging  to  this  word  .  .  . 

TRUTH 

He  commences  to  understand  that  I  wish  him 
well)  .  .  .  Listen  to  him,  he  is  called  Blondin  and 
was  as  fine  as  his  name,  as  pretty  as  a  heart, 
but  women  have  left  only  the  shell." 

"Ah !  my  poor  friends,"  Blondin  lamented,  after 
having  remained  huddled  in  his  chair,  "there  is  an- 
other one  this  week.  This  makes  the  seventh  this 


The  Color  of  Marriage  211 

year,  without  counting  all  those  which  pass  unno- 
ticed .  .  .  Ah!" 

"What  is  it?"  Moscowitch,  inquired. 

"A  premature  burial." 

"Ah!  my  poor  friends,"  sighed  Blondin,  stretch- 
ing his  contracted  hands  towards  a  vision  of  horror, 
"to  be  buried  alive,  to  twist  in  the  coffin  with  an- 
guish and  suffocation  .  .  .  and  first  of  all  the 
calvary  of  cataleptics  condemned  to  torment  .  .  . 
the  hyprocritical  tears  ...  the  stirrings  in  the 
chamber  .  .  .  the  ominous  carpenter  .  .  .  the 
church  .  .  .  the  Di4s  irae  .  .  .  the  stones  and  the 
wet  ground,  and  the  rain  falling,  falling,  falling  on 
the  oak  .  .  .  then  silence,  silence,  silence  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  Blondin,"  Fortier  said,  "you  should  get 
married.  That  will  divert  you." 

"Poor  woman !"  Renaudeau  exclaimed.  "Let 
him  rather  take  light  o'  loves." 

"But  I  believe,"  Entragues  said,  "that  his  princi- 
ples .  .  ." 

"Yes,  this  unfortunate  creature  is  truly  mal- 
treated by  life.  What  a  specimen.  And  not  one 
of  us  is  assured  against  such  a  disorder!  When 
one  thinks  of  this  possible  end,  it  is  best  to  follow 
Fortier's  advice,  marry,  become  bourgeois,  procreate 
and  only  read  the  first  page  of  the  papers,  the  feuille- 
ton,  the  exchange,  and  deny  oneself  all  other  sun- 
dry facts  as  too  exciting." 

"More  than  one  of  us  will  end,"  Entragues  said, 
"with  marriage,  corporeal  progeniture." 


212  Very  Woman 

"Do  you  not  find  it  odd,  Entragues,  that  to  marry, 
one  is  forced  to  submit  to  ceremonies  and  to  the 
assent  of  one's  contemporaries?" 

"I  imagine,"  Entragues  said,  "that  a  religious 
marriage,  in  a  tiny  solitary  chapel,  by  an  affected 
priest,  in  the  presence  of  two  or  three  dear  friends, 
with  no  discourse  other  than  the  admirable  words  of 
the  missal,  without  celebrations,  without  dances, 
without  any  consequent  dinner — I  believe  that  in 
such  forms  marriage  is  an  interesting  act  which  one 
would  pleasurably  recall,  especially  if  a  red  lamp 
hung  from  the  vault,  if  the  priest  had  a  fine,  well- 
accentuated  voice,  and  if  one  loved  one's  bride.  As 
practiced,  marriage  is  the  most  repugnant  of  the 
ceremonies  imposed  on  men  by  tradition.  It  is, 
what?  the  official  authorization  given  by  society  to 
a  man  and  woman  to  live  together.  There!  Ah! 
analysis  goes  to  the  bottom  of  everything,  even  to 
the  most  sacred  customs." 

Entragues  was  almost  applauded  for  his  phrases, 
spoken  with  a  very  noble  conviction.  It  was  the 
thought  of  every  one  present,  expressed  in  splendid 
language. 

David  Dazin  alone  seemed  sad.  He  was  a  lean 
and  tall  Belgian  with  curled  hair,  blond  as  the 
moon  and  as  disquieting.  His  vanity  was  pleased 
by  the  hoaxes  of  the  papers  who  jeered,  from  time 
to  time,  at  his  theory  of  colored  vowels.  Although 
he  had  taken  this  from  Rimbaud,  he  imagined  that 
he  had  invented  it  and  he  prided  himself  on  being 
a  revolutionary  genius.  Rimbaud  was  a  madma-i 


The  Color  of  Marriage  213 

with  gleams  which  often  touched  on  talent;  Dazin 
was  a  sane  man  in  quest  of  madness :  it  had  frus- 
trated him,  for  his  unaccountable  amputations  only 
formed,  on  the  clown's  arena,  poses  that  were  neither 
new  nor  pleasant. 

He  feigned  a  deep  grief  of  feelings  wounded  in 
their  delicacy,  and  addressed  Entragues : 

"What,  you  associate  with  red,  that  is  with  bright 
coppers,  such  an  image  as  a  religious  marriage! 
The  organs  prevail  there :  the  tone  is  black." 

"But,"  Entragues  answered,  "I  do  not  fix  any 
obligatory  association.  I  see  my  sanctuary  illumi- 
nated by  feeble  red  lamp,  a  quite  occasional  and 
personal  association.  As  for  marriage,  it  is,  doubt- 
less, white,  blue,  rose,  usually ;  for  me  it  is  black  with 
a  red  speck  and  some  beams  of  dull  gold." 

"That  would  be  better,"  Dazin  returned,  "but 
red  alone,  as  I  understood  it,  would  pain  me." 

"Ah!  how  sensitive  this  poor  D'azin  is?" 

"Entragues,"  interrupted  Fortier,  "do  you  wish  a 
box  for  the  Odeon,  to-morrow?" 

"Oh!  no,  thanks." 

"Be  careful,  there  is  a  surprise.  They  will 
play  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"You  will  see!     You  will  see!" 

"Very  well,"  said  Entragues. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

DEPARTURE 

"Deja  il  revait  a  une  thebaiide  raffinee, 
a  un  desert  confortable,  a  une  arche  immo- 
bile et  tiede  ou  il  se  refugierait  loin  de  1'in- 
cessant  deluge  de  la  sottise  humaine." 

Huysmans,  A  Rebours. 

MOSCOWITCH,  feeling  bored  and  out  of  place 
among  such  obscure  discussions,  bowed  to  the 
honorable  editors,  and  excusing  himself  to  En- 
tragues,  left. 

"Ah!"  Renaudeau  said,  "perhaps  we  are  going  to 
learn  who  this  new  manufacturer  of  dramatic  litera- 
ture is." 

"I^do  not  know  myself,"  Entragues  answered, 
"having  brought  him  here  only  through  international 
courtesy." 

"And  to  get  rid  of  him?"  Fortier  questioned. 
"But  Renaudeau  does  not  permit  himself  to  be 
overreached.  Besides,  we  shall  see,  for  he  has 
left  me  a  copy:  'The  Voluntary  Expiation,  drama 
in  eight  scenes.'  Ah !  there  is  an  Explanatory  Note: 
'In  default  of  social  justice,  inner  justice  punishes 
the  guilty;  one  has  opprobrium  for  its  end;  the 
other,  rehabilitation ;  the  one  abases,  the  other  ele- 
vates.' A  period,  then  a  dash,  and  these  three 
214 


Departure  215 

words  twice  underlined:     VOLUNTARY  EXPIATION 

SANCTIFIES.'  " 

"Well!"  Entragues  said,  "it  is  quite  puerile,  but 
perhaps  the  text  contains  interesting  details." 

"Yes,"  Renaudeau  put  in,  "a  new  form  justifies 
all  subjects,  as  a  fine  resilvering  conceals  verdigris. 
Do  you  ask  for  indulgence?" 

"Oh!  no,"  Entragues  returned,  "although  I  have 
a  certain  interest  in  having  him  believe  he  is  destined 
for  fame.  If  you  wish  to  oblige  me,  humor  him 
with  illusions  until  the  final  dagger  thrust." 

"So  you  are  becoming  wicked,  Entragues?"  asked 
Fortier. 

"No,  it  is  just  for  the  sport." 

He  requested  an  envelope  and,  after  inserting  the 
box  ticket  with  his  card  and  writing  the  name  of 
Madame  Sixtine  Magne  upon  it,  h.e  had  it  dis- 
patched to  her.  As  soon  as  the  office  boy  left,  re- 
morse seized  him :  perhaps  he  would  have  done 
better  to  go  there  in  person.  No.  Yes.  No.  Yes. 

Renaudeau,  who  had  glanced  over  the  manuscript, 
arrested  this  fatiguing  game  of  see-saw  by  saying: 

"It  is  not,  perhaps,  so  bad.  When  a  drama  has 
a  philosophy,  it  appears  superior  to  anything  we 
have.  Our  classical  theater  is  so  denuded  of  mystic 
sense!  Corneille  does  politics,  Racine,  the  psychol- 
ogy of  the  laboratory,  and  as  for  Moliere,  he  is 
closed  to  aught  that  is  not  ruse,  enjoyment,  banal 
remarks  on  love,  and  vague  statements.  When  he 
wishes  to  take  up  any  traits  of  manners,  it  is  to 
subject  women  to  the  materialism  of  life,  to  rail  at 


2i6  Very  Woman 

nobility,  because  there  is  none,  or  at  the  doctors, 
because  they  cannot  cure  him  of  his  hypochondria. 
Veuillot,  but  Hello  especially,  has  judged  him  well: 
he  shuts  the  door.  It  is  really  the  theater  of  a  Gas- 
sendist." 

"You  are  speaking  of  Moliere?"  asked  Calixte, 
entering.  "He  is  a  wretch:  he  has  jeered  at  the 
dreamer." 

"Nevertheless,"  objected  Van  Bae'l,  "what  of  Al- 
ceste  and  Don  Juan?" 

"But,"  Renaudeau  interposed,  "even  had  he  done 
nothing  at  all,  he  would  be,  like  Voltaire,  beyond 
criticism." 

"Don  Juan  would  have  charm,  were  it  not  for  his 
ridiculous  rustics,"  Calixte  said.  "But  see  how 
everything  shrinks  in  the  brain  of  this  bourgeois: 
if  Don  Juan  is  not  a  fastidious  person,  if  in  the 
vast  field  of  corn  he  does  not  choose  the  finest,  the 
highest  and  the  most  golden,  if  he  makes  a  sheaf  of 
everything,  he  is  no  longer  Don  Juan,  he  is  a  trailer 
after  petticoats." 

"Precisely,"  Entragues  said,  "but  if  he  loves  them 
all,  it  is  because  he  idealizes  them  all." 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  Calixte  said.  "Moliere  only 
made  these  countrywomen  victims  of  Don  Juan  to 
put  the  comic  note  into  his  play :  he  had  to  make  his 
audience  laugh  and  the  first  conception  that  came 
was  good.  And  Alceste?  Does  this  person  who 
detests  men  and  who  prefers  solitude  to  the  few  con- 
cessions demanded  by  a  pretty  woman — does  this 
man  find,  at  the  end  of  five  acts,  a  single  word  to 


Departure  217 

paint  the  soul-state  of  a  hater  of  humanity?  He 
is  only  a  crabbed  fellow.  Above  all  else,  he  places 
the  joy  of  being  himself  in  liberty,  far  from  the 
world,  and  he  does  not  know  how  to  express  it :  he 
has  no  soul!  With  what  delicious  grace  does  the 
so  ridiculed  Thisbe,  the  Thisbe  of  Theophile,  tell 
Bersiane  of  her  dread  of  noise,  external  life,  the 
movement  of  things : 

THISBE 

Sais-tu  pas  bien  que  j'aime  a  rever,  a  me  taire 
Et  que  mon  naturel  est  un  peu  solitaire, 
Que  je  cherche  souvent  a  m' oter  hors  du  bruit? 
Alors,  pour  dire  vrai,  je  hais  bien  qui  me  suit: 
Quelquefois  mon  chagrin  trouverait  importune 
La  conservation  de  la  bonne  fortune,, 
La  visite  d'  un  Dieu  me  desobligerait, 
Un  rayon  de  soleil  parfois  me  facherait. 

"And  what  do  the  professors  mean  by  telling  us 
that  the  sentiment  of  nature  was  unknown  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  when  we  find  such  verses,  again 
in  the  same  Theophile : 

Les  roses  des  rosiers,  les  ombres,  les  ruisseaux, 
Le  murmure  des  vents  et  le  bruit  des  oiseaux, 
Chaque  saison  donne  ses  fruits, 
L'  automne  nous  donne  ses  pommes, 
L'Hyver  donne  ses  longues  nuits, 
Pour  un  plus  grand  repos  des  hommes. 
Le  Printemps  nous  donne  des  fleurs, 
II  donne  Tame  et  les  couleurs 
A  la  feuille  qui  semblait  morte.  .  .  . 

or  such  lines : 

"I  do  not  know  the  rest.  One  always  reads 
the  same  books,"  Calixte  concluded,  "without  sus- 


218  Very  Woman 

pecting  that  only  those  which  the  majority  disdains 
have  interest." 

"Theophile,"  Entragues  remarked,  "is  one  of  the 
rare  French  poets.  He  is  full  of  delicate  reveries. 
I  know  him  well  for  I  love  him : 

Prete-moi   ton   sein   pour   y   boire 
Des  odeurs  qui  m'  embaumeront. 

"The  second  Theophile  has  spoken  of  him  with- 
out having  read  him.  This  is  obvious,  for  why 
should  he  have  passed  his  time  in  explaining  him, 
if  he  had  known  him?  One  only  talks  of  what  one 
does  not  know;  to  talk  of  what  one  knows  seems 
useless;  one  gets  bored  and  bores  others  as  well. 
That  is  why  criticism  is,  most  often,  so  disagreeable 
when  it  is  well  informed,  and  partaking  of  an  emetic 
laxity,  the  rest  of  the  time." 

"Like  that  of  Bergeron,"  Calixte  said.  "Why 
have  you  accepted  his  dilution  of  nonsense  on  Ver- 
laine  and  Huysmans?" 

"As  an  advertisement,  my  dear,"  Fortier  answered. 
"It  is  virtually  printed  on  the  blue  sheets  of  the  ini- 
tial and  final  announcements." 

"He  is  witty,"  Renaudeau  said,  "and  that  amuses : 
one  must  live.  It  has  gained  us  several  alleged  sub- 
scriptions." 

"The  man  is  pretending,"  Entragues  declared. 
"He  is  as  incapable  of  feeling  Verlaine's  poetry  as  I 
of  feeling  Moliere's." 

"And  then,"  Calixte  interposed,  "he  is  truly  too 
destitute  of  principles.  After  some  savage  attack, 


Departure  219 

he  offers  you,  what?  another  article,  'this  one  seri- 
ous, according  to  my  real  convictions.'  As  Goncourt 
says,  there  are  'droll  vulgarians.'  Ah!  I  see  noth- 
ing since  Hennequin,  whose  precision  of  method 
and  sureness  of  deduction  pardoned  an  absolut- 
ism of  theory  that  was  a  little  hard.  I  see  nothing 
except  those  of  to-morrow,  those  who  still  speak  in 
the  desert.  It  is,  nevertheless,  interesting  to  read 
the  alleged  opinion  of  an  intelligence  on  works 
old  or  new  ..." 

"There  remains  Fiction  and  Poetry,"  Entragues 
said,  "and  for  me  that  suffices." 

Dazin,  who  had  only  offered  some  inarticulations 
since  his  blue  and  red  vowels  had  foundered  under 
the  gales  of  talk,  declared : 

"Nothing,  nothing  more,  and  besides,  there  was 
never  anything;  but  one  believed,  and  now  one  no 
longer  believes.  I  love  them.  You  will  soon  see 
the  Abyusales  which  are  now  being  printed:  you 
will  see.  It  is  a  chaplet  of  medals  where,  with  a 
certain  material  force,  I  have  restored  the  profiles  of 
women.  I  believe  they  are  in  a  tolerable  style. 
Here  are  the  first  lines  of  the  first  one : 

Basilisse,  icon. — In  the  lecherous  and  parthenoide 
incognition,  the  abysmal  gleam  of  the  muliebrile 
future  towards  the  flames  and  the  chimerical  burn- 
ing ah  (wings  unfold  for  this  flight  and  eyeballs 
glisten:  silk  rumples  at  the  carnal  rustling)!  slum- 
bers and  blond  the  cruel  senses  are  veiled! 

She. 

Here  blond  the  gloom. 


220  Very  Woman 

To  smile  at  the  growth  of  vernal  grass  and  the 
gladioles  died  of  ennui  the  blood  returns  to  the 
heart. 

Sharp  already?  The  Arachnean  dead  in  rents 
and  the  pungency  the  red  and  the  buckler  is  resolved 
on  the  aureoles  twinly  surge 

the  Breasts." 

Among  the  flakes  of  this  verbal  fog,  Entragues 
suspected  Dazin  of  having  wished  to  suggest  the 
birth  of  puberty  and  the  awaking  of  the  senses. 
He  knew  the  facile  arcena  of  these  strained  phrases 
of  which  Dazin  was  not  the  inventor.  Such  a  style 
was  not  absolutely  to  be  condemned,  provided  one 
only  used  it  for  the  sake  of  desired  obscurities  and 
with  the  glossary  of  a  context. 

Mortified  at  being  understood  by  a  simple  analyst, 
Dazin  left. 

"He  believes  himself,"  Renaudeau  said,  "a  Mal- 
larme  or  a  more  subtle  Laforgue." 

"He  has  not  even  surprised,"  Calixte  Heliot  an- 
swered, "the  most  elementary  of  their  processes." 

"The  processes  of  a  poet,"  Entragues  said,  "are 
part  of  his  talent :  it  would  be  quite  sterile  to  possess 
it.  Mallarme  plays  with  the  complementary  colors 
of  those  with  which  he  wishes  to  suggest  vision.  If 
Dazin  had  remained,  I  would  have  given  him  this 
secret  and  also  told  him  that  to  be  a  more  subtle 
Laforgue,  one  must  have  more  than  a  capricious 
syntax,  abusive  metaphors  of  rare  words,  and  the 
like — one  must  have  a  spontaneity  which  touches  the 
heart." 


Departure  221 

Hubert  and  Calixte  left  together  and  walked  at 
random  through  the  streets,  continuing,  almost  al- 
ways in  agreement,  the  conversation  begun  in  the 
Revue. 

This  time,  again,  they  did  not  separate  until 
the  hour  of  sleep;  they  were  happy  in  enjoying  each 
other,  with  the  certainty  of  likewise  delighting  each 
other,  of  expressing  concordant  thoughts,  of  offer- 
ing nothing  that  would  be  a  blasphemy  to  the  other. 

As  they  were  noting  the  parallelism  of  these  two 
evenings  which  chance  meetings  had  given  them, 
at  a  short  interval,  Hubert  remarked  the  duality  in 
the  development  of  events. 

"When  an  act  is  produced,  it  is  always  produced 
a  second  time.  This  is  an  axiom.  It  is  evident 
that,  to  demonstrate  it,  one  would  have  to  be  for- 
tified with  a  multiplicity  of  historic  anecdotes,  and 
I  do  not  know  if  this  is  possible.  As  far  as  I  and 
my  past  life  are  concerned,  there  is  such  a  surpris- 
ing and  frightful  exactitude  in  the  axiom  that  I 
believe  I  could  predict  nearly  half  the  things  which 
will  happen  to  me  from  to-day  until  the  last  sleep. 
Besides,  this  axiom,  perhaps,  is  quite  personal  to 
me,  special  to  my  organism.  Such  a  tendency  to 
repetition  is  not  the  source  of  any  joy.  I  wish  that 
pleasures  could  be  doubled  like  pains  and  that 
the  proportion,  in  short,  could  remain  the  same, 
but  consider  the  infirmity  of  mathematics  applied  to 
the  human  soul:  it  is  assuredly  less  painful  to  me 
to  have  seven  griefs  for  one  felicity  than  to  bear 
a  double  weight  counterbalanced  by  such  a  weak 


222  Very  Woman 

duplication  as  that  of  one  to  two.  Prolonged  to 
infinity,  the  two  proportions  would  go  on  eternally 
equipoised,  but  the  scale  of  pains  breaks  with  its 
chains  and  crushes  our  hearts." 

At  the  request  of  Calixte,  skilful  in  diverting  a 
conversation  headed  for  the  abysses,  Entragues  re- 
lated some  of  his  plans  to  his  friend.  What  works 
to  be  constructed !  It  was  not  that  the  freestone  was 
lacking,  nor  cement,  nor  accessories ;  it  was  a  ques- 
tion of  time.  He  had,  ready  for  erection,  more 
ideas  than  a  century  could  utilize,  and  sometimes  the 
things  which  would  never  be  done  frightened  and 
haunted  him  like  a  swarming  of  gnomes.  He  had 
thought  of  this  on  certain  mornings :  to  put  some 
books,  his  copybooks,  his  notes,  his  written  sheets 
in  a  valise  and  hide  himself  for  the  rest  of  his  life 
in  a  closed  house,  facing  the  sea.  He  saw  it  built 
on  the  dunes,  between  the  strand  and  the  first  trees 
of  the  coast:  no  vegetation  nearby  excepting  the 
pallid  grass,  the  violet  thistles  and  the  tall  darnels; 
the  view  of  steeples  far  off,  on  the  land  side ;  on  the 
other  side,  the  sea  and  a  lighthouse,  amid  wind  and 
wave,  like  a  symbol.  Wagons  pass,  full  of  sea- 
weed ;  horses  and  men  pant  on  the  sand,  yoked  to 
the  labor  of  the  fecundation  of  the  ground,  and 
he,  yoked  to  the  labor  of  the  sterilization  of  desires, 
would  watch  them  pass.  Towards  the  equinoxes, 
the  spray  of  waves  agitated  by  moon  and  tempest 
would  come  to  strike  against  his  window,  like 
a  bird's  wing.  And  birds  would  also  come  to- 
wards the  gleam  of  his  lamp  and  he  would  open 


Departure  223 

his  window  to  the  spray  of  waves  and  the  wings 
of  birds.  Like  a  monster,  he  would  be  alone. 
"For  we  are  monsters,  my  poor  Calixte,  we  have 
put  our  duty  above  life;  our  souls  afar  from  men, 
like  fabulous  dragons,  we  guard  imaginary  treas- 
ures, and  we  know  it,  and  to  this  nothingness  we 
sacrifice  all,  even  our  life!  We  have  hearts  of  an- 
chorites and  we  would  court  women!  Ah!  were  I 
there — a  hermit  among  my  dreams,  an  excellent 
shelter — I  should  write  what  I  shall  perhaps  not 
write:  a  work.  But  to  what  end?  Now,  at  other 
times  I  would  like  to  get  into  some  fixed  habit,  punc- 
tually deliver  myself  to  love,  quarrel  with  my  wife 
at  stated  hours,  rise  late,  enfeeble  the  ennui  of 
evenings  in  the  vain  noise  of  theaters,  eat  nourish- 
ing foods  which  charge  the  nerves  with  vibrant 
fluids,  and  busy  myself,  during  rainy  hours,  with 
an  honorable  compilation." 

"It  would  be  better  to  clothe  oneself  in  love,"  Ca- 
lixte said.  "To  transfer  one's  egoism  to  a  woman : 
to  be  jealous  of  one's  own  joys  more  than  of 
hers,  in  fine,  to  give  to  another  the  absurd  happiness 
one  would  not  wish  for  oneself;  to  dream  that  she 
is  happy,  that  she  feels  it  and  knows  it  is  through 
my  agency." 

"Do  you  imagine  that  this  would  be  possible  for 
us?"  Entragues  asked. 

He  made  no  allusion  to  his  personal  sentiments, 
for  even  Calixte  was  not  his  confidant.  In  ques- 
tioning his  friend  or  in  answering  him,  he  spoke 
with  full  liberty,  completely  abstract. 


224  Very  Woman 

"Yes,"  Calixte  answered,  "the  'Imitation'  gives 
the  clue.  It  suffices  to  transfer  to  a  creature  the 
love,  proportionately  lessened,  which  the  priest  feels 
towards  God.  It  would  be  a  sort  of  obligation  to 
love  which  one  would  impose  upon  oneself,  the  first 
rule  of  a  more  general  rule  of  life,  freely  and  Chis- 
tianly  accepted,  once  for  all." 

"I  had  not  thought  of  this,"  Entragues  said,  "of 
love  considered  as  a  spiritual  discipline." 

"Such  is  the  exact  formula,"  Calixte  declared. 
"If  we  can  yet  save  ourselves,  we  and  all  similar 
monsters,  it  is  through  Christianity  and  Christian 
discipline.  This  will  singularly  elevate  our  souls 
and  it  may  curb  our  transcendental  egoisms !" 

"We  should  require  Beatrices,"  Hubert  said. 

"They  can  be  created,"  Calixte  responded,  "and 
we  can  baptize  a  nobly  profiled  woman  with  divine 
love." 

(Hubert  received  this  note  on  the  following  day: 
"It  is  perhaps  quite  compromising,  but  I  am  free. 

Be  good  enough  to  call  for  me  at  eight  o'clock." 
Then  he  began  to  dream  of  the  joy  of  shared 

pleasures,  and  instantly  the  fourth  chapter  of  The 

Adorer  found  itself  shaped.) 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    ADORER 

IV.    The  Blond  Forest 

"Nous  promenions  notre  visage 

(Nous   fumes  deux,  je  le  maintiens) 

Sur  maints  charities  de  paysage, 

O  soeur,  y  comparant  les  tiens." 

Stephane  Mallarme.    Prose  pour 
des  Esseintes. 

E  blond  forest  is  filled  with  love:  after 
the  fall  of  sunlight  and  the  night,  smiling 
jewels. 

"Together,  our  souls  thrilled  at  the  return  of  the 
primordial  splendor;  noons  have  not  blinded  us, 
for  we  have  slept,  during  the  heat  of  the  day,  in 
the  shadow  of  our  love :  our  tendernesses,  like  wings, 
fanned  us  and  the  freshness  of  our  breath  vaporized 
the  perfumes. 

"Like  us,  the  forest  filled  with  love  has  slept,  for 
it  is  in  our  souls  that  its  verdures  have  arisen,  its 
birds,  its  drooping  branches,  its  flowers,  its  murmur- 
ings  and  the  dominating  heights  of  its  radiant  trees. 

"The  blond  forest  is  a  body  filled  with  love:  it 
sleeps  but  sparingly  and  during  our  sleep,  slumber- 
225 


226  Very  Woman 

ing  it  sang,  its  body  filled  with  love,  and  we  heard 
the  song  of  the  blond  forest : 

Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'amour  d'une  amoureuse, 
Mes  herbes  sont  les  cils  trempes  de  larmes  claires 
Et  mes  blancs  liserons  sont  les  ecrins,  paupieres 
Ou  les  bourraches  bleues,  ces  yeux  fleuris,  reposent 
Leurs  eclatants  saphirs,  etoiles  de  sourires, 
Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'    amour  d'  une  amoureuse. 

Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'amour  d'une  amoureuse. 
Mes  lierres  sont  les  lourds  cheveux  et  mes  viournes 
Contournent  leurs  ourlets,  pareils  a  des  oreilles. 
O  muguets,  blanches  dents  !     Eglantines,  narines ! 
O  gentianes  roses,  plus  roses  que  les  levres ! 
Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'amour  d'une  amoureuse, 

Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'amour  d'une  amoureuse. 

Mes  sanies  ont  le  profil  des  tombantes  epaules, 

Mes  trembles  sont  des  bras  tremblants  de  convoitise, 

Mes  digitales  sont  les  doigts  freles,  et  les  oves 

Des  ongles  sont  moins  fins  que  la  fleur  de  mes  mauves, 

Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'amour  d'une  amoureuse, 

Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'amour  d'une  amoureuse. 
Mes  sveltes  peupliers  ont  des  des  tailles  flexibles, 
Mes  hetres  blancs  et  durs  sont  de  fermes  poitrines 
Et  mes  larges  platanes  courbent  comme  des  ventres 
L'  orgueilleux  bouclier  de  leurs  ecorces  fauves, 
Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'amour  d'une  amoureuse, 

Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'amour  d'une  amoureuse. 
Boutons  rouges,  boutons  sanglants  des  paquerettes, 
Vous  etes  les  fleurons  purs  et  vierges  des  mamelles, 
Anemones,  nombrils !     Pommeroles,  aureoles ! 
Mures,  grains  de  beaute !    Jacinthes,  azur  des  veines ! 
Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'amour  d'une  amoureuse, 

Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'amour  d'une  amoureuse. 
Mes  ormes  sont  la  grace  des  reins  creux  et  des  hanches, 
Mes  jeunes  chenes,  la  force  et  le  charme  des  jambes, 


The  Adorer  227 

Le  pied  nu  de  mes  aunes  se  cambre  dans  les  sources 
Et  j'ai  des  mousses  blondes,  des  mysteres,  des  ombres, 
Je  suis  le  corps  tout  plein  d'amour  d'une  amoureuse ! 

"When  we  had  heard  the  love  song  of  the  blond 
forest,  we  awoke,  and  together  we  enjoyed  the  blue 
calm  of  the  last  hours. 

"The  beloved  madonna  gave  me  a  last  smile, 
night  separated  us  and,  left  alone,  I  dreamed  of 
the  delights  of  shared  love." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   EDUCATION    OF    MAIDENS 

"Enamouree,  tant  que  mon  coeur  etouffe!" 
Ciacco  Dell'  Anguillara. 

SCRAPS  of  conversation  of  the  preceding  eve- 
ning returned  to  his  memory  after  he  left.  The 
approaching  pleasure  of  the  promised  evening  led 
his  thoughts  to  the  theater,  and  he  mentally  re-read 
some  of  the  dramatic  projects  he  had  conceived 
and  written. 

Two  or  three  particularly  interested  him.  They 
sketched  some  brief  scenes  of  stupidity,  egoism,  ill- 
nature,  the  eternal  and  contemporary  eagerness  to 
engage  with  the  passion  embedded  in  very  young 
hearts.  He  merely  showed  simple  persons  domi- 
nated by  a  vice,  an  ambition,  a  mania;  no  analysis 
except  in  the  rough;  probabilities  carefully  extracted 
from  the  improbable  confusion  of  ordinary  life; 
soul  states  which  tend  to  become  symbolic ;  no  mere 
news,  no  sudden  changes,  no  modification  of  facts. 
What  an  agreeable  spectacle,  for  example,  in  the 
legend  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  defined  in  images,  or 
the  story  which  a  biscuit  manufacturer  prints  on 
rough  pale  rose  paper  for  his  trade,  or  some  popu- 
lar tale,  or  higher,  among  holy  or  saintly  things, 
228 


The  Education  of  Maidens          229 

Passion,  the  Life  of  the  Magdalene,  a  narrative 
dramatized  by  a  little  of  the  unforeseen  struggles 
of  spirit  against  flesh.  Everything  came  back  to 
that. 

Prey  to  a  devouring  intellectual  excitement,  Hu- 
bert walked  rapidly  with  no  destination  in  mind 
beyond  the  desire  to  free  himself  by  means  of  the 
natural  denouements  of  the  agitated  world  which 
stirred  in  him,  assailing,  like  grapeshot  of  besiegers, 
the  fortress  of  his  logic. 

Finally,  as  he  was  walking  along  the  rue  des 
Tuileries,  near  the  wooden  and  zinc  booth  where 
at  certain  times  people  exhibit  paintings,  and  where 
at  other  times  young  girls  exhibit  their  capacities 
as  teachers;  near  this  booth,  the  enchanted  army 
disappeared,  returning  to  limbo. 

The  booth  was  shut  and  the  street  empty,  but 
Entragues  saw  the  door  open  and  the  highway  as 
far  as  the  garden  fill  with  little  pupils,  with  mammas 
hanging  to  their  coats,  proudly,  and  black  paper- 
boxes  under  their  arms,  faded  complexions,  breasts 
drooping  through  the  constant  bending  of  the  chest, 
ugly  robes  without  even  the  coquetry  of  a  beggar's 
colored  rags,  ink-stained  fingers,  sleeves  made  glossy 
by  rubbing  against  wooden  tables,  and  orthographic 
preoccupations  in  the  eyes  of  those  at  the  age  of  a 
mild  little  love  affair  with  "the  friend  of  my  brother" 
or  "the  brother  of  my  girl  friend." 

He  distinguished,  however,  a  future  woman  be- 
tween two  who  wore  spectacles.  She  walked  with 
a  sprightly  and  decided  air,  carrying  her  body 


230  Very  Woman 

that  was  rebellious  to  the  obligatory  deformations; 
she  was  brunette  and  garbed  in  a  becoming  black. 
A  young  man,  who  moved  timidly  among  all  these 
skirts,  lifted  his  hat  as  he  glanced  at  her;  she  an- 
swered with  a  little  motion  of  the  head,  joined  him 
without  shame  and  both,  arms  united,  departed.  In 
the  middle  of  the  street,  she  threw  over  the  wooden 
fence  her  black  box,  inkstand,  pencils,  penholder 
and  papers;  these  articles  the  wind  blew  about;  the 
girl  joyously  clapped  her  hands,  seemed  to  pause 
for  a  long  breath;  then  they  fled.  They  hastened 
with  reason,  for  a  teacher,  warned,  was  running 
towards  her  pupil,  the  hope  of  her  cage  and 
the  honor  of  her  manger;  they  hastened  with  rea- 
son :  for  they  were  going  to  live. 

Entragues  understood  quite  well  what  had  hap- 
pened. It  was  during  the  dictation  that  a  sudden 
lance  thrust  had  pierced  her  heart,  making  a  breech 
in  the  breastplate  of  boards.  Blood  had  rushed, 
mingling  with  rules  of  syntax :  she  was  saved! 

Entragues  was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  the  too 
humorously  ironic  form  which  the  anecdote  took. 
He  decided,  in  case  he  ever  returned  to  it  with  a 
view  of  writing,  to  introduce  a  more  methodical 
and  haughty  protestation.  The  instruction  given 
to  young  girls  did  not  vex  him,  but  its  quality  did : 
they  were  crammed,  like  Turkish  women,  with 
maize-flour,  so  as  to  obtain  a  forced  corpulency,  al- 
though fine  dieting  is  necessary  for  those  creatures 
who  can  so  easily  be  deformed.  Neither  grammar, 
nor  geography,  nor  distasteful  chronological  history, 


The  Education  of  Maidens          231 

nor  practically  anything  now  customary  was  suit- 
able for  women,  but  only  the  Old  and  New  Testa- 
ment, the  Life  of  the  Saints,  solid  mystic  readings, 
then  the  poets,  the  romancers  of  dreams,  all  that 
can,  in  gloomy  hours,  reflower  in  the  soul,  at  the 
call  of  holy  harps,  at  the  summons  of  kisses  of  love, 
under  children's  caresses. 

These  thoughts  accompanied  him  as  far  as  his 
home,  whither  the  rain  forced  him  to  return. 

He  had  not  wished  to  think  directly  of  Sixtine  all 
day,  for  fear  of  withering  the  expected  pleasures 
by  a  precocious  plucking;  she  had  her  revenge;  al- 
though it  was  long  before  the  hour  of  the  rendez- 
vous, he  held  her  before  his  eyes,  but  changing  and 
retreating,  like  a  woman  who  comes  and  goes,  busied 
with  her  toilet,  disappearing  all  white,  reappearing 
clothed  in  color,  a  summer  landscape  whose  nuances 
obey  the  transparent  play  of  clouds. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    ESTHETIC    THRILL 

"Le  style  est  inviolable." 

Ernest  Hello. 

* ( 1  BESIDES,  here  is  the  spring,  it  will  enliven 
D  me.  You  will  see,"  said  the  actor,  with  a 
malicious  smile.  "You  will  see.  I  do  not  detest  the 
country,  once  in  a  while.  It  inspires  fresh  ideas 
that  sometimes  are  lucrative.  It  is  like  the  the- 
ater .  .  ." 

"The  public  seems  uneasy,"  said  Sixtine.  "One 
would  swear  that  it  does  not  understand." 

"While  waiting  to  be  shocked.  It  is  permissible  to 
curse  gold,  not  to  scorn  it.  Would  you,"  continued 
Hubert,  "incite  men  to  the  mockery  of  the  secret 
quintessence  of  their  ideal?  To  scoff  at  lucre  in  the 
theater  is  to  blaspheme  God  in  a  church." 

"Oh!  my  manner,  Monsieur,"  said  the  actress, 
"never  signifies  anything  .  .  ." 

This  was  taken  by  Sixtine  almost  as  a  personal 
allusion.  She  would  have  liked  to  hear  herself 
addressed  in  a  phrase  which  permitted  such  a  reply. 
All  the  hypocrisy  imposed  on  women  protected  in 
syllables  against  the  stupidity  of  men  who  never 
guess.  When  she  heard  : 
232 


The  Esthetic  Thrill  233 

".  .  .  Yes  ...  I  believe  you  have  some  illusions 
concerning  my  true  nature  .  .  ." 

Her  hands  came  together  in  a  gesture  of  applause. 
She,  too,  was  misunderstood;  she  felt  herself  cap- 
able of  using  a  similar  phrase.  The  audience  mur- 
mured. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  she  told  Hubert.  "Here 
is  sympathy,  if  these  sounds  are,  as  I  believe,  a 
mark  of  indignation  against  the  impudent  foolish- 
ness of  this  man." 

"I  think,"  said  Hubert,  "that  they  are  growing 
angry  against  the  boldness  of  the  woman.  Visi- 
bly before  them,  she  lies  to  her  duty  which  is  to  lie 
and  go  noiselessly  about  her  love  affairs." 

".  .  .  Be  honest  and  rich,  the  rest  is  vanity  .  .  ." 

"There  is  an  unbending,"  remarked  Hubert. 
"This  last  has  been  received  as  a  flattery.  They 
now  believe  she  is  going  to  reproach  him  because 
she  has  only  been  honest  and  rich,  thanks  to  her- 
self. There!  that's  right.  This  is  fine,  this  is  in- 
vigorating! Ah!  ah!" 

"I  told  you  of  admirable  things  of  the  earth, 
I  told  you  of  the  true  reality,  that  which  you  must 
choose  .  .  ." 

"Sixtine  leaned  forward,  drawn  by  the  magnet- 
ism of  the  noble  speech,  then  fell  back  in  her  seat, 
dreamy,  her  fingers  trembling,  feeling  the  imperious 
desire  of  a  hand  to  envelop  her  hand.  Without 
moving  her  head,  she  turned  her  eyes  towards 
Hubert:  he  was  listening,  less  moved  than  fasci- 
nated. 


234  Very  Woman 

"I  want  to  live!  Do  you  understand,  madman 
that  you  are!  ...  I  thirst  after  serious  things! 
I  want  to  breathe  the  full  air  of  the  sky!" 

The  same  esthetic  thrill  shook  them  at  the  same 
instant:  their  breath  came  faster,  they  had  grown 
pale;  their  lips  opened  as  for  silent  exclamations. 

The  electric  current  which  descended  down  their 
spines  with  rapid  waves  stirred  their  limb,  and  at 
last,  unconsciously  attracted  to  each  other,  they  were 
forced  to  let  their  hands  obey  the  attraction  of  the 
fluids. 

Then,  the  intensity  of  the  emotional  excitement 
doubled:  their  beings  floated  in  a  warm  and  caress- 
ing eddy,  under  the  delicious  downpour  of  a  water- 
fall warmed  by  a  mysterious  sun,  and  the  corporeal 
flowers  of  sensuality  burned  to  open. 

They  listened,  without  letting  a  syllable  of  the 
magic  prose  escape  their  ears,  and  they  dreamed 
while  listening;  they  forgot  "the  omnipotence  of 
inferior  minds;"  they  deified  each  other,  they  as- 
cended, supple  and  light,  the  mystic  steps,  summoned 
now  by  the  illusion  of  a  very  pure  and  very  ex- 
panding air  at  the  summit  of  a  narrow  mountain 
above  the  clouds.  Indeed,  they  had,  "agitated 
minds,"  as  the  male  character  of  the  piece  had  so 
well  said;  they  said  to  the  whole  world:  "Your 
joys  are  not  my  joys;"  all  that  stirred  outside  of 
them,  all  things  that  agitated  below  their  flight 
were  quite  truly  "infantile  and  noxious/'  in  the 
silence  they  were  in  rapport  with  their  "old  friend" ; 


The  Esthetic  Thrill  235 

they  cried  aloud  to  life:     "It  is  no  longer  a  ques- 
tion of  all  this!    Adieu!  ..." 


And  at  the  end,  when  they  went  down  with  the 
curtain's  fall  to  the  stupefied  room,  the  same  stifled 
cry  issued  from  their  mouths,  the  cry  of  Hamlet : 

"Horrible!     Horrible!     Horrible!" 

Entragues,  swept  away  by  a  movement  of  anger, 
so  little  in  accord  with  his  usual  character,  thus 
challenged  a  man  who  was  hissing  : 

"Monsieur,  you  are  a  cur!" 

As  the  rascal  contented  himself  with  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  in  this  way  taking  his  key  away,  En- 
tragues felt  sadness  and  shame  welling  within  him 
in  place  of  anger. 

"We  will  protest,"  said  Sixtine,  "by  foregoing 
the  rest  of  the  play." 

It  was  nine  o'clock.  Some  persons,  having  been 
spared  the  rise  of  the  curtain,  were  strolling  under 
the  Odeon  galleries,  looking  at  the  latest  novels: 
Hubert  recognized  several  eminent  critics  and 
thought  he  could  read,  underneath  the  ribbon  of  their 
hats,  the  repetition  of  the  naive  avowal  Colle  made 
in  his  Journal:  "I  undertake  to  criticize  plays  be- 
cause I  cannot  write  any  myself."  They  spoke  of  the 
revival  of  the  little  machine,  and  one  of  them  deemed, 
in  a  simple  and  new  style,  that  "the  need  of  it  did 
not  perhaps  make  itself  very  acutely  perceived." 
This  irony  was  relished. 

"We  shall  go  on  foot,"  said  Sixtine. 


236  Very  Woman 

The  weather  was  humid,  but  mild.  They  walked 
through  little  dark  streets,  grazed  by  occasional 
passersby,  in  silence. 

She  asked  him  if  he  personally  knew  the  author 
of  this  piece  so  unlike  the  things  ordinarily  heard 
at  the  theater. 

"He  is  dead,"  said  Hubert.  "He  was  the  nob- 
lest writer  of  our  time." 

Half  of  the  young  writers  recognized  him  as 
their  master  and  almost  all  had  been  touched  by 
his  influence.  In  his  works  were  pages  of  an  in- 
comparable magnificence  and  purity  of  language. 
He  truly  gave  the  impression  of  the  two  souls  of 
Goethe  and  Edgar  Allen  Poe  melted  into  one  and 
lodged  in  the  same  person. 

Sixtine  was  surprised  that  he  was  not  better 
known,  but  Hubert  assured  her  that  he  was  known 
to  those  who  could  understand  him.  Others  would 
only  be  capable  of  acquiring  the  verbal  knowledge 
of  his  name,  and  to  what  end?  He  proceeded  just 
like  some  other  contemporaries  whom  Hubert  named, 
but  when  the  thieves  of  glory  would  have  used  up 
their  life-interest,  the  others  would  enter  the  house, 
the  parchment  of  immortality  in  their  hands,  and 
would  expel  the  intruders.  Perhaps  at  this  very 
hour  still  others,  more  unknown,  were  lying  in  a 
cellar  or  were  dying  bedridden,  whose  names  would 
to-morrow  fill  the  world  with  an  unexpected  gleam. 

"Well!  Madame,  think  that  Jesus,  who  was  the 
son  of  God  and  whose  works  and  speech,  sown  in 
time  and  space,  have  yielded  great  harvests,  think 


The  Esthetic  Thrill  237 

that  Jesus  died  so  unknown  that  Josephus,  almost 
his  contemporary,  the  grandson  of  the  high-priests 
and  descendant  of  the  Maccabees,  captain  general 
of  the  Galileans,  historian  of  all  the  little  details  of 
Jewish  history, — Josephus  had  never  heard  of  Jesus. 
I  could  give  you  more  accessible  examples,  but  this 
is  primordial  and  those  among  us,  who  go  through 
with  an  obscure  life,  unjustly,  should  not  deem  them- 
selves humiliated :  their  day  will  come  if  they  are 
worthy,  and  if  not,  it  is  quite  useless  that  a  light 
should  spring  up  which  will  have  to  be  extinguished." 

"You  are  all  quite  haughty,"  said  Sixtine,  "you 
would  not  be  vexed  to  be  compared,  in  your  wretched 
distresses,  with  the  Son  of  Man." 

"Oh!"  answered  Hubert,  "I  never  dreamed  of 
such  a  ridiculous  blasphemy.  Just  as  saints  and 
less  lofty  souls,  endowed  with  good  will,  take  for 
example  the  human  career  of  Jesus,  and  console 
themselves  for  their  merited  sufferings  by  thinking 
of  the  unmerited  injuries  of  Christ,  so  it  is  per- 
mitted us  to  assuage  the  feeling  of  our  disappoint- 
ments by  similar  meditations.  Would  you  have  us 
take  for  themes  of  prayer  the  life  of  Socrates,  who 
died  unknown  to  the  Greeks?  Would  you  have 
us  take  Spinoza?  He  was  a  polisher  of  spectacle 
glasses,  a  drinker  of  milk,  and  he  died  of  starvation, 
not  of  penury,  because  his  mind  was  distracted  and 
he  forgot  to  nourish  himself,  having  other  things 
to  do." 

Sixtine  was  confounded  with  astonishment  that 
he  should  give  her  such  barren  talk  after  their  mutual 


238  Very  Woman 

esthetic  and  sentimental  emotions.  She  attempted 
to  reascend  to  the  source  to  see  if,  this  time,  the 
craft  would  not  take  another  branch  of  the  stream. 

She  spoke  of  the  acting,  which  she  found  perfect. 

"Alas !"  said  Hubert.  Ignorance,  sometimes,  re- 
sembles genius  among  actors.  Whoever  is  ignorant 
and  yet  must  get  out  of  a  difficulty,  invents  badly 
or  well,  has  recourse  to  personal  souvenirs,  to  in- 
tuitive gestures.  No,  those  we  heard  are  perfect: 
they  know  all  they  have  learned.  Especially,  noth- 
ing unforeseen:  the  foot  goes  like  this,  the  hand 
like  that,  etc." 

"At  least,"  said  Sixtine,  "they  pronounce  well 
and  speak  clearly." 

"It  is  proper,  but  without  conviction.  What 
woman,  besides,  outside  of  two  or  three  select  crea- 
tures .  .  ." 

"I,"  thought  Sixtine,  "I,  for  example." 

".  .  .  Could  take  this  role  royally  enough  to  make 
one  feel  that  it  is  not  a  role  ?  Oh !  the  public  is  not 
exacting.  The  women  come  here  to  distract  them- 
selves, the  men  because  it  gives  them  ideas  after  a 
good  dinner.  Pathetic  things  to  the  former,  can- 
tharides  to  the  latter.  If  they  followed  their  inclina- 
tions most  women  would  go  to  the  Eden  and  most 
men  to  the  Ambigu." 

"I  owe  you,"  said  Sixtine,  "a  very  noble  pleasure 
and  I  am  grateful.  We  are  at  my  door." 

Hubert,  recognizing  the  door,  had  a  vision  of 
lost  time ;  he  uttered  a  word  which  atoned  somewhat 
for  his  awkward  digressions: 


The  Esthetic  Thrill  239 

"Already!" 

"If  it  were  not  so  late,  I  should  have  offered  you 
a  cup  of  tea,  ten  minutes  by  the  fire-place  which 
awaits  me,  but  really  .  .  ." 

"Oh !  I  entreat  you !" 

"It  is  because  ...  no,  it  is  not  possible." 

"In  that  case,  you  should  not  have  made  me 
think  of  it,"  said  Hubert  in  a  tone  of  chagrin. 

"You  had  not  thought  of  it?  Then,  go  back  to 
the  very  place  where  you  did  not  think  of  it,  and  you 
will  return  in  peace." 

"Five  minutes,  only  five  minutes !" 

"Be  sensible,  I  will  look  for  you  to-morrow." 

"Only  as  far  as  your  door !" 

"For  what  reason,  then?  Come,  ring  for  me, 
if  you  please." 

He  obeyed.  The  door  opened,  she  offered  him 
her  hand,  then  slowly,  with  movements  of  weari- 
ness or  regret,  she  crossed  the  threshold.  Still 
more  slowly  she  pushed  the  door  behind  her,  pausing 
twice  before  closing  it. 

At  the  moment  of  the  inexorable  sound,  Hubert 
experienced  a  great  sadness.  He  remained  there 
for  a  few  seconds,  without  thought,  then  suddenly 
a  quite  illogical  association  of  ideas  made  him  see 
once  more  the  quasi-nuptial  room  of  the  "dark 
Marceline,"  and  in  this  story  he  now  divined, 
without  really  knowing  why,  premonitory  ironies. 
Then  he  walked  away,  dreaming  of  doors  which 
close,  of  doors  which  have  been  opened  and  which 
no  longer  open. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

PANTOMIME 

"II  parait  que  1'opera  etait  fini." 

E.  and  J.  de  Goncourt,  Idees  et 
Sensations. 

ENTRAGUES,  endowed  with  a  deductive  mind, 
liked  to  find  his  bearings — to  know  what  he 
was  about.  To  recall  the  past,  confront  it  with  the 
present,  determine  the  resultant  of  the  two  terms, 
the  future — this  he  called  living.  Nothing,  in  fact, 
clarifies  the  conscious  mind  more  than  these  analyt- 
ical processes.  What  a  philter !  The  state  of  one's 
soul  is  clearly  perceived.  It  is  an  egoistic  enjoy- 
ment, but  as  salubrious  as  opening  the  windows 
after  awaking  in  the  morning. 

He  saw  the  cold  gardens,  the  trees  despoiled  of 
their  illusions :  could  he,  with  a  glance,  warm  the 
earth  again  and  bedeck  the  trees  ? 

No,  he  only  acquired  the  certainty  of  his  impo- 
tence, an  immense  acquisition. 

"With  a  glance?  There  certainly  is  a  certain 
way  of  looking  at  things  which  makes  them  tremble 
like  conquests  under  the  conqueror's  eyes.  The 
book  of  universal  magic  should  teach  this.  Satan 
knows  it.  But  Faust  is  in  hell.  That  denouement 
was  a  good  lesson:  we  will  not  be  caught  again! 
240 


Pantomime  241 

Now,  what  is  momentary  love  at  the  cost  of  eternal 
life? 

"I  must  confess  that  I  was  deliciously  agitated 
yesterday.  But  why?  I  realize  it  now,  though  I 
did  not  yesterday.  Yesterday  I  revelled  in  perfect 
unsel f consciousness :  I  had  to  leave  the  flower-bed 
in  order  to  breathe  the  perfume  of  flowers. 

"It  is  true  that  I  had  breathed  them  in  advance. 
Ah!  I  remember  it  all.  It  was  not  a  flower-bed, 
but  a  forest, — it  comes  to  the  same  thing:  one  can 
take  the  wrong  symbol. 

"So,  there  is  no  present.  My  calculations  are 
simplified.  The  future  is  uncertain,  for,  thinking 
that  I  was  penetrating  the  jungle  of  a  somewhat 
disordered  forest,  I  found  myself  in  the  smooth  walks 
of  a  pretty  little  parterre:  we  were  very  well-be- 
haved there,  we  did  not  trample  on  the  flower-beds 
with  heedless  feet,  and  we  breathed  the  fragrance 
of  the  flowers  with  fitting  gestures  of  assent.  Thus 
only  the  past  has  some  chances  of  existence. 

"Here  is  the  question  reduced  to  the  simplest 
unity:  is  it  worth  while  traveling  for  the  sake  of 
memories?  All  who  have  gone  to  Constantinople 
or  to  the  Gobelins  can  respond. 

"But  to  live  again,  one  must  have  lived. 

"Is  it  I  who  have  spoken?  I  thought  I  heard  an 
oracular  voice. 

"No  matter,  the  premise  of  my  logic  was  false, 
for  the  conclusion  is  absurd. 

"We  live  in  imaginary  realms,  that  is  to  say 
in  the  transcendental  or  supernatural  reality;  then 


242  Very  Woman 

why  not  place  both  feet  on  the  same  plane?  To 
dream  of  love,  must  I  have  pressed  against  my 
flesh  the  flesh  of  my  beloved?  Naivete.  Did  Guido 
touch  his  madonna?  It  she  a  woman  he  has  pos- 
sessed— or  only  played  with  ?  For  its  is  a  true  pleas- 
ure of  love  to  reinvolve  its  illusory  carnality  in  order 
to  love,  in  the  person  of  the  woman,  the  intangible 
creature  of  one's  dreams ! 

"I  reason  well,  decidedly.     I  am  a  logician. 

"I  should  have  followed  this  career  ...  Ah !  here 
is  the  house!  Already?  The  same  exclamation 
as  yesterday  evening!  I  do  not  get  bored  with  my- 
self. No,  and  here  I  am  returned  to  the  place 
I  left." 

Entragues  shrugged  his  shoulders,  thinking: 
"One  would  say  that  above  is  someone  who  is 
stronger  and  who  mocks  at  us." 

Then,  he  rang. 

She  was  tired,  pale  despite  the  red  of  her  robe, 
reclining  in  a  large  arm-chair,  barricaded  with 
cushions,  very  near  a  big  wood  fire;  she  was  read- 
ing, her  head  thrown  back. 

The  light,  feeble  and  bluish,  fell  from  a  suspended 
lamp.  Hubert  suspected  that  she  could  not  de- 
cipher the  printed  pages  and  thought  she  had  as- 
sumed an  attitude,  but  he  was  mistaken:  Sixtine, 
like  many  women,  had  the  eyes  of  a  cat ;  she  was 
very  seriously  reading  les  Victimes  d' Amour. 

Seeing  this  title  on  the  rose-colored  cover  of  the 
volume  which  Sixtine  had  thrown  on  the  ground  at 
his  approach,  Hubert  had  a  moment  of  anguish. 


Pantomime  243 

"I  misunderstood  the  woman!" 

It  seemed  to  him  that  his  love  was  rendered  ab- 
ject in  promiscuity  with  the  banal  adventures  in 
this  head,  which  nevertheless  was  charming  and 
delicate  under  this  fawn-colored  hair. 

"So  these  are  the  things  she  loves!" 

"Are  you  annoyed?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  Hubert  answered  frankly,  and  to  get  a  re- 
assuring answer,  "it  is  because  I  see  you  taking 
pleasure  in  unworthy  books." 

"But  I  swear  to  you  that  this  book  is  agreeable 
and  most  exciting.  It  pleases  me,  as  you  say,  and 
indeed!  it  would  be  very  painful  to  me  had  I 
mislaid  the  other  books.  I  thought  I  had,  at  first : 
thank  Heaven,  the  anguish  was  brief.  Here  they 
are,"  she  added,  searching  among  the  cushions,  "and 
I  am  sorry  that  there  are  only  three  of  them  and 
that  I  shall  be  obliged,  after  finishing  them,  to  com- 
mence some  other  story  again.  Oh !  for  this  sort  of 
distraction,  the  quality  of  literature  is  quite  in- 
different to  me:  all  I  ask  is  that  it  be  complicated, 
threatening,  as  absurd  as  impossible.  It  is  my 
opium,  or,  if  you  wish,  my  supply  of  cigars.  In 
what  would  you  really  have  me  interested,  in  your 
analytical  things  and  .  .  .  what  ?  symbolical  things  ?" 

"But  yesterday?"  hazarded  Hubert. 

"Yesterday,  the  esthetic  emotion  was  present- 
able. It  harmonized  with  the  nuance  of  my  robe 
and  the  form  of  my  bodice,  to  which,  moreover, 
you  paid  no  attention." 

"I  beg  your  pardon!  the  shade  was  light  green 


244  Very  Woman 

and  the  form  was  that  of  Brittany.  You  looked  like 
a  severe  lady  of  yore  confining  in  a  rigid  corselet 
breasts  that  have  been  mortified  by  penitence." 

"Yes,  but  you  acted  as  if  I  were  incorporeal  and 
only  garbed  with  the  charms  of  my  virtues.  I  warn 
you,  Monsieur,  that  on  any  future  occasion  when  I 
walk  with  you  (quite  improbable  occasion!),  I  will 
put  on  the  severest  black  of  the  severest  woolen 
robe  I  have." 

She  continued,  after  listlessly  stirring  the  embers 
in  the  grate. 

"The  pleasure  in  pretty  robes  is  quite  ended.  I 
would  like  a  uniformed  costume  like  nuns,  not  too 
unbecoming,  so  as  not  to  weary  my  eyes  in  mirrors." 

"Black,"  said  Hubert,  "would  be  agreeable,  but 
why  this  renunciation?" 

"So  that  the  external  gayety  might  not  make  a 
false  contrast  with  the  darkness  of  my  soul  .  .  . 
I  should  not  have  received  you  this  evening,  for 
I  am  sad  and  forlorn." 

"You  promised." 

"That  is  no  reason.  I  have  had  more  important 
promises  made  to  me  which  were  never  fulfilled. 
I  bear  no  malice,  only  regret." 

"Let  me  love  you?" 

"And  to  what  purpose?"  asked  Sixtine,  drawing 
herself  up  in  her  chair  as  if  stupefied. 

"It  will  perhaps  console  you." 

"Oh !  my  dear,  do  what  you  wish,  I  am  patient  and 
passive,  but  I  warn  you,  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you." 

"You  are   so  discouraging!"    Hubert  gently   re- 


Pantomime 

turned.  "Thus,  you  should  have  let  me  enter  with 
you  yesterday  evening  .  .  ." 

"Did  I  forbid  you?" 

"You  refused  to  let  me." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Did  I  forbid  you  to  take  hold  of  the  door 
when  I  was  closing  it?  Did  I  forbid  you  to  ring 
if  the  first  stratagem  did  not  succeed?  Did  I  forbid 
you  to  hasten  after  me  while  I  slowly  climbed  the 
steps?  .  .  .  Yesterday,  it  was  necessary  to  enter, 
and  to-day  it  is  necessary  to  leave  .  .  .  because," 
she  quickly  added,  "I  am  ill  and  inclined  to  go  to 
bed.  It  is  not  an  idealistic  sight,  I  do  not  invite 
you  to  it.  Your  modesty  would  suffer,  and  mine 
perhaps.  A  bientot,  come  again,  do  not  fail  to 
come  again." 

Without  answering  such  impertinences,  Hubert 
arose  and  violently  imprisoned  her  in  his  two  arms. 
She  closed  her  eyes,  he  kissed  them ;  he  kissed  her 
mouth;  Sixtine,  with  a  sudden  start,  half  lifted 
herself,  then  they  fall  back  against  the  cushions,  in- 
terlaced. There,  profiting  by  the  fact  that  one  of 
his  arms  relaxed  its  hold  to  travel  along  the 
body  towards  the  bottom  of  the  robe,  she  freed  her- 
self entirely  (it  is  the  moment  when  complicity  is 
necessary),  and  standing,  with  crossed  arms,  she 
ironically  regarded  Hubert  who  was  still  on  his 
knees. 

This  time  it  was  she  who  walked  towards  him. 

She  took  his  hand,  led  him  under  the  little  sus- 
pended lamp  and  silently  pointed  with  her  finger 


246  Very  Woman 

to  two  or  three  significant  red  spots  that  were  swell- 
ing at  the  corner  of  her  mouth. 

"Do  not  say  a  word,  please,  but  go.  It  is  per- 
haps a  pity  .  .  .  but  I  have  no  heart  for  love  this 
evening  .  .  .  You  should  have  perceived  it,  my  dear, 
if  only  by  the  color  of  my  voice  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  MAN  AND  THE  PRETTY  BEAST 

"E  parvemi  mirabil  vanitate 
Fermar  in  cose  il  cor,  ch'el  tempo  preme, 
Che    mentre   piu    le   stringe,    son   passate." 
Petrarque,  Triumph  of  Time. 

THAT  evening,  Hubert  had  had  the  courage  to 
return  to  his  home,  to  undress,  to  go  to  bed, 
to  fall  asleep,  without  admitting  the  intrusion,  in 
his  consciousness,  of  any  thought.  He  was  like  a 
beaten  dog  filled  with  an  irrational  shame,  and 
buried  under  the  heavy  covers,  his  eyes  shut,  he  had 
attained  sleep  by  a  system  of  long  and  slow  inhal- 
ings  which,  regulating  the  heart  movement,  calmed, 
then  enfeebled  the  brain,  like  chloral. 

In  the  morning,  his  adventure  brought  a  smile  to 
his  face,  and  he  even  composed,  in  a  tone  of  sad 
raillery,  a  series  of  little  acrobatic  verses,  entitled: 
The  Thread.  Of  fifteen  stanzas,  two  amused  him. 
He  wrote  them : 

De  quoi  s'agit-il? 
De     presque     rien.    Ah! 
Le  plaisir  tient  a 
Un  fil. 

C  est  un  fil  de  tulle, 
Cest  un  fil  de  soie: 
S'en  va,  comme  bulle, 
La    joie. 
247 


248  Very  Woman 

Then  he  attempted,  while  stirring  the  fire,  which 
a  moist  wind  was  troubling,  to  recite  to  himself 
the  sonnet  of  his  friend,  Calixte : 

Les  Desirs,  s'  envolant  sur  le  dos  des  Chimeres, 
Jouent  avec  la  lumiere  et  le  crin  des  crineres  .... 

But  his  stubborn  memory  gave  him  only  these 
two  lines.  He  recalled  that  Delphin  was  going  to 
put  it  to  music,  was  even  going  to  do  some  instru- 
mentation on  the  theme  as  a  gloss.  But  Delphin, 
for  want  of  a  fitting  medium  between  the  brass 
instruments  and  the  strings,  did  not  yet  compose : 
he  was  waiting. 

"In  fine,"  thought  Hubert,  "I  must  admit  that  I 
have  missed  being  happy.  To  surprise  a  woman, 
hypnotize  her  with  kisses,  chloroform  her  with 
caresses,  then  be  united  with  her  through  the  fall- 
ing of  cushions,  with,  before  one's  eyes,  the 
future  boredom  of  partial  repetitions  of  a  similar 
proceeding — this  is  called  being  happy!" 

Heliot  had  related  to  him  that  once,  in  a  similar 
situation,  the  maid  had  discreetly  entered  at  the 
most  interesting  passage,  asking,  through  the  open 
door :  "Does  Madace  wish  her  slippers  ?*' 

"Consequently,  I  have  missed  being  happy  once 
more,  for  such  felicities  are  not  unknown  to  me : 
it  is  only  the  color  of  garters  that  differs.  Well, 
till  tomorrow  or  the  day  after  toworrow:  Sixtine 
is  in  my  power.  It  is  certainly  pleasant,  very  pleas- 
ant. 

"We  will  enjoy  charming  evenings.     She  is  in- 


The  Man  and  the  Pretty  Beast      249 

telligent  and  I  shall  read  her  my  manuscripts:  here 
and  there,  I  need  a  woman's  opinion.  It  is 
astonishing  that  heretofore  this  has  not  troubled 
me  more.  When  shall  I  see  her  again.  To-day? 
No.  To-morrow  ?  No.  But  shall  I  write  to  her  ? 
Twice  daily.  She  will  answer  in  little  brief  and 
impersonal  phrases,  with  shafts  of  raillery.  I  shall 
let  her  rail  at  me :  I  can  do  it,  for  I  am  sure  of  my 
case.  Well,  Tuesday?  We  shall  see.  Happiness 
leaves  me  cold  and  its  regular  perspectives  sadden 
me.  Thus,  I,  too,  have  pursued  the  pretty  beast 
and  I  am  satisfied.  With  what?  With  having 
put  my  foot  on  its  shadow." 

MAN   AND   THE   PRETTY   BEAST 

The  road,  under  the  sun,  lies,  white  and  dusty, 
lies  under  the  sun. 

The  pretty  beast,  what  is  it  like?  It  runs  too 
swiftly,  one  sees  it  run,  one  does  not  see  it,  the 
pretty  beast. 

The  man  is  naked,  panting  and  with  cruel  eyes, 
like  a  hunter,  naked,  however,  and  disarmed. 

"Pretty  beast,  I  would  trap  thee,  ah !  pretty  beast, 
I  have  thee,  pretty  beast." 

The  man  has  bounded,  he  has  put  his  foot  on  the 
pretty  beast,  his  bare  foot,  very  gently,  so  as  not 
to  hurt  it. 

"Ah !  I  have  thee,  pretty  beast !" 

"No,  no,  thou  dost  not  have  me.  Thy  bare  foot 
is  resting  on  my  shadow." 

"Ah !  this  time,  pretty  beast,  thou  art  my  prisoner ; 


250  Very  Woman 

I  have  thee,  pretty  beast,  I  have  thee  in  my  hands." 

"Thou  hast  me  and  thou  seest  me  not,  for  the  odor 
of  my  body  blinds  men.  Thou  hast  me,  and  see ! 

"See,  I  escape  thee  and  I  run.  Run  after  me, 
run  after  the  pretty  beast." 

"Ah!  I  am  weary  with  running  for  sixty  years; 
come,  my  son,  it  is  thou  who  will  catch  the  pretty 
beast. 

"I  am  weary,  I  sit  down  to  rest;  go,  it  is  now 
thy  hour  to  run  after  the  pretty  beast !" 

Having  finished  this  rhapsody,  Entragues  wrote 
the  beginning  of  the  story  of  Gaetan  Solange,  which 
had  long  tormented  him. 

It  was  a  way  of  explaining  himself  by  means  of 
an  anticipated  commentary,  for  he  was  on  the  verge, 
doubtless!  of  a  similar  state  of  soul:  would  not 
Hubert  and  Gaetan  be  true  counterparts,  to-morrow, 
if  this  continued? 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   INFAMY   OF   BEING    HAPPY 

"I    now    see   distinctly"   he   said,    "what 
manner  of  people  these  maskers  are." 

Foe:  Hop-Frog 

SOLANGE'S  pessimism  was  practical:  he  per- 
severingly  endeavored  to  make  his  life  wretched 
by  all  sorts  of  very  simple,  yet  ingenious  combina- 
tions. 

First  of  all,  principles:  Men  lie  and  women  de- 
ceive. There  are  but  two  motives  to  human  acts — 
lucre  and  lust.  All  women  with  pleasant  -faces 
conceal  objectionable  defects.  Men  who  are  not 
wicked  are  stupid. 

Other  principles :  All  food  is  tainted  or  adulter- 
ated; it  is  useless  to  seek  anything  better  than  the 
bad.  All  streets  are  hideous,  full  of  vile  women, 
rubbish,  drains  and  filth.  All  apartments  lack  air 
and  light.  And  so  on. 

Consequently,  and  as  he  could  not  take  pleasure 
in  principles,  Gaetan  Solange  had  taken  lodgings 
in  a  foul  quarter,  at  the  end  of  a  damp  court,  in 
two  or  three  little  dark  rooms.  They  were  the 
most  agreeable  rooms  he  could  find  after  years  of 
patient  search. 

251 


252  Very  Woman 

When  he  returned  to  his  rooms,  in  the  evening,  it 
was  amid  the  repugnant  attacks  of  an  army  of 
wretched  women;  and  sometimes  a  drunken  vagrant 
barred  his  way  through  the  narrow  alley  with  insults 
and  threats.  Solange  was  satisfied,  for  this  proved 
that  the  police  were  lax,  that  nobody  could  return 
to  his  dwelling  after  ten  o'clock  without  risking 
his  life. 

A  spongy  cutlet,  a  woody  cigar,  bitter  beer,  a 
spotted  table-cloth  gave  his  visible  satisfaction.  It 
was  thus:  "What  would  you?  If  you  wish  to  live, 
you  must  accept  the  inconveniences  of  life." 

He  liked  to  be  plagued  by  a  woman  who,  penni- 
less, became  refractory  to  all  caresses — as  in  Un 
Dilemme — and  the  friends  who  had  abused  his 
confidence,  wittingly  ill-placed,  were  dear  to  him  as 
the  orthographic  faults  of  a  literary  master :  this 
proved  once  more  the  absolute  rules  of  his  grammar. 

He  only  read  newspapers,  and  the  vilest  of  them, 
so  that  nothing  might  disturb  his  belief  that  no  one 
wrote  save  to  earn  money,  and  that  the  viler  and 
more  lying  any  literature  is,  the  more  it  entertains 
the  public — all  the  public. 

Entragues  paused  in  his  work  and  reflected :  "We 
are  almost  in  accord,  yes,  for  if  I  detest  to  lull  my- 
self in  joy  and  in  the  contentment  of  my  heart,  it 
is  not  through  a  desired  and  coddled  impotence.  I 
do  not  disdain  life,  I  have  never  disowned  its  pleas- 
ures. It  is  neither  bad  nor  good,  it  is  indifferent, 
it  is  the  conditional  state  of  dreams,  and  that  is 
all.  To  demand  of  life  a  little  happiness  is  to  give 


The  Infamy  of  Being  Happy        253 

too  much  importance  to  the  mechanism  of  the 
senses  and  to  make  oneself  conform  with  corpo- 
real invitations  and  with  the  rules  of  matter,  whereas 
the  will  should  aim  towards  emancipation. 

"But  I  know  the  perils  of  asceticism  and  its  in- 
famies; and  were  I  happy,  I  would  experience 
astonishment  rather  than  shame.  I  have  never 
believed  that  this  was  written  in  my  destiny.  This 
attitude  is  proper,  for  I  cannot,  like  a  fool,  believe 
that  "this  was  due  me,"  and  despite  some  gleams 
of  Christian  humility,  my  pride  is  so  superb  that 
I  cannot  for  any  length  of  time  admit  the  frailty 
of  my  merits.  No  person,  doubtless,  was  ever 
worthy  of  happiness;  but  unless  I  am  a  Pharisee, 
I  should  not  deem  myself  below  average  humanity: 
such  a  posture  of  kneeling  would  partake  of  weak- 
ness and  cowardice.  It  is  permitted  me,  without 
any  disturbing  in  the  order  of  my  essential  ideal- 
ism, to  moisten  my  lips  from  the  cup  which  this 
charming  woman  offers  me;  then  I  shall  make  her 
drink  it ;  then,  emboldened,  we  shall  quench  our 
thirsts  together,  inhaling,  like  harvesters  leaning 
over  the  clear  spring,  the  delights  of  cooling  re- 
freshments. 

"I  leave  to  Solange  his  shame;  he  is  a  madman 
whose  crippled  understanding  is  blind  to  this  idea : 
that  only  those  who  suffer  from  the  refinements 
of  their  sensitiveness  are  permitted  to  toy  ironically 
with  the  cankers  that  life  is  soiled  with,  and  not 
those  who  delight  in  breathing,  without  disgust, 
the  sordid  purulence." 


254  Very  Woman 

He  continued  to  muse,  without  writing: 

"Solange  is  a  rather  good  fellow  although  a 
little  uncultured,  with  coarse  clothes  and  ugly  shoes. 
At  a  marriage  which  he  was  obliged  to  attend, 
he  met  a  young  girl  who  fell  in  love  with  him, 
discreetly  and  with  reserve,  but  seriously.  She 
watched  him,  blushing  under  his  glance  in  quest  of 
defects;  she  lowered  her  eyes.  When  she  passed 
near  him  she  felt  a  strange  fear  come  over  her — 
the  fear  of  being  arrested  by  his  arm  and  the  fear 
of  a  banal  bow.  Naturally  the  young  girl's  mother 
introduced  Solange  to  her;  he  was  asked  some 
favor,  a  very  skillful  maternal  snare,  since  he  would 
have  to  bring  the  information  in  a  short  while. 
He  came,  he  returned,  ever  drawn  by  adroit  com- 
binations ;  finally,  he  returned  for  his  own  pleasure 
and  found  himself  enmeshed  before  he  had  time 
to  reflect.  Besides,  he  thought  of  nothing,  he  let 
himself  go,  conquered  and  captive. 

"They  were  married.  Their  moderate  fortunes 
joined  together  became,  in  the  hands  of  the  intelli- 
gent young  woman,  a  source  of  honest  and  almost 
luxurious  comfort.  Their  apartment  was  large, 
light  and  sunny,  the  food  carefully  chosen;  and 
instead  of  looking  forward  to  the  ennui  of  a  lonely 
single  bed,  he  enjoyed  the  constant  presence  of  a  be- 
loved being  who  tinted  with  rose  and  blue  the 
hours  formerly  gloomy  with  lonely  awakenings. 

"He  no  longer  had  time  to  scorn  men  or  to  relish 
their  low  greediness;  pleasure  of  love,  enjoyed  in 
full  naivete,  evoked  no  lewd  images  in  his  de- 


The  Infamy  of  Being  Happy        255 

sires,  no  horror  of  self  or  of  others;  what  others? 

"In  fine,  he  was  happy ! 

"Happy!  He!  He  the  sutbborn  pessimist,  he 
whose  aversion  to  every  ideal  had  astonished  the 
most  impotent!  Happy!  what  a  shame!  He 
plunged  to  the  depths  of  the  abyss  in  which  this  ad- 
venture had  overwhelmed  his  principles ;  he  brought 
them  back  one  by  one ;  ah !  they  were  rotting ;  all 
was  ended  and  with  them  all  joy  of  living — for  he 
had  just  understood  how  much  the  wretchedness  of 
a  mediocre  existence,  how  much  the  sentiment  of  the 
universal  dunghill,  was  necessary  to  his  happiness !" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

INTOXICATION 

fls  rjv  ev  df\fi" 

Greek  Liturgy. 
"Man,    meditate   on   the    syllable    Om." 

The  Khandogya  Upanishad. 

HUBERT  wrote  two  notes,  and  the  evening 
of  the  second  day  knocked  at  Sixtine's  door. 
Absence.  A  third  note  and  another  visit  were  like- 
wise in  vain. 

"She  is  sulking,"  he  thought.  "So  much  the  better. 
Her  anger  will  exhaust  itself  against  my  shadow 
and,  when  she  condescends  to  receive  me,  her  beauti- 
ful face  will  be  free  of  all  vexation." 

He  was  too  assured  of  virtual  possession  even  to 
suppose  an  attempt  to  fly  from  his  hands.  By  im- 
aginary advances,  realized  in  desire,  the  union  was 
established  for  ever.  All  scorn  was  impossible :  she 
had  breathed  the  fragrance  of  the  philter. 

Far  from  grieving,  he  congratulated  himself; 
far  from  languishing,  he  breathed  more  deeply  the 
invigorating  breezes  of  certitude.  Having  achieved 
peace  with  himself,  having  thrown  his  pride  over- 
board, his  lightened  bark  now  moving  spiritedly 


Intoxication  257 

towards  the  haven  of  golden  sands,  he  would  enter 
at  the  propitious  hour. 

The  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  he  received  news 
in  this  form: 

"Please  do  not  forget  the  soiree  of  the  Countess 
on  Wednesday  next.  This  on  her  behalf. 

"On  my  own  behalf,  I  am  sorry  for  having  been 
too  unwell  and  too  busy  either  to  receive  you  or  to 
reply. 

"But  have  we  not  eternity?     S.  M." 

Entragues  saw  no  disquieting  bitterness  in  this 
raillery — and  another  day  passed. 

"The  catalogue  of  obscene  joys  is  brief,  but  it 
suffices,  on  certain  days,  to  give  the  desire  of  puri- 
fying oneself  for  this  world  and  the  other.  Solange 
had  some  rather  just  views  before  his  malady:  it  is 
distressing  that  the  chastity  of  devotees  should  be 
defiled  in  the  hour  when  they  regain  their  solitary 
oratories.  I  shall  do  well  to  read  Tertullian  and 
some  consoling  pages  before  retiring,  for  I  fear  the 
power  of  words.  No,  I  shall  dream  of  Sixtine. 
Dear  creature  of  my  desire,  I  trust  in  your  magic: 
what  wanton  importunities  will  not  yield  to  the 
grace  of  your  gestures?  Abode  of  my  will,  re- 
treat of  my  illusions  of  love,  appear  to  me  and 
protect  me!" 

They  were  standing,  interlaced.  She  kissed  him 
lightly  and  repeatedly  on  the  corner  of  his  eyes, 


258  Very  Woman 

while  having  him  breathe  a  rose.  It  could  not 
last,  he  was  becoming  too  languid. 

Silvery  moonlight,  clouds,  strident  peals  which 
usher  in  lightning,  silvery  moonlight. 

The  storm  hovers  in  the  velvety  sky,  the  turbulent 
clouds  pass,  rifts  pour  out  silvery  moonlight. 

It  has  thundered,  indeed.  Far  away  it  rumbles, 
it  rumbles!  Another  flash!  Ah!  it  lightens,  long! 
Again!  He  is  dead. 

Hubert  awoke,  roused  by  the  terrible  rumbling. 

"Ah!  Desecration!  It  was  Sixtine.  Ah!  the 
plague  of  imbecile  nerves !" 

All  during  the  storm,  he  remained  up  in  his  bed, 
haggard  and  shivering.  The  confusion  of  his  sensa- 
tions stunned  him :  he  could  not  understand  how  this 
carnal  hallucination  had  developed  parallel  with  the 
beginning  of  the  storm  in  a  moonlight  night.  At 
last,  when  the  dream's  absurdity  was  evident  to 
him,  he  grew  calm  and,  benumbed  by  the  cold,  fell 
again  between  his  covers. 

"This  day  will  be  horrible.  After  all,  it  is  worse 
than  Guido,  worse  than  Valentine!  Such  a  retro- 
gression is  degrading.  And  I  think  I  am  master  of 
myself,  master  of  the  external  world,  master  of  this 
universe — a  woman — when  I  cannot  even  regulate 
the  order  the  logical  sequence  of  my  impressions! 
The  human  mechanism  should  be  known  to  me, 
and  if  consequences  are  unnconquerable,  at  least 
the  causes  should  submit  to  my  will.  The  saints, 


Intoxicaiion  259 

with  the  aid  of  God,  had  this  power;  but  God  has 
deserted  us  and  because  of  the  modern  Celsus'  has 
left  us,  without  bucklers,  exposed  to  the  arrows  of 
Sin.  Henceforth,  all  hours  are  its  hour  and  we  all 
belong  to  it :  it  has  conquered  time,  space  and 
number." 

Hubert  had  never  felt,  as  in  those  moments,  the 
misfortune  of  being  a  man  and  of  being  nothing  else. 
His  pride,  ruined  by  his  passion,  collapsed  like  an 
old  wall,  and,  lying  on  the  ruins  bemoaned  himself. 
This  attraction,  reasoned  and  combatted  with  the 
logical  weapons  of  his  character,  became  the  stronger, 
dominated  him  consciously  and  unconsciously.  He 
had  come  to  a  state  where  he  no  longer  thought; 
his  mind  no  longer  functioned  save  in  brief  de- 
ductions, and  the  need  of  security  distracted  him 
from  exact  observation.  During  those  decisive  days, 
in  which  Sixtine  had  taken  a  part,  without  a  doubt, 
he  limited  his  tactics  to  brief  recalls  of  presence, 
instead  of  obtruding  himself  point-blank  and  bar- 
ring the  road  to  every  other  unforeseen  arrival.  It 
was  easy  to  avoid  the  nocturnal  visitation,  by  going 
himself  to  the  fair  visitor:  if  a  magnetic  and  super- 
reasonable  force  had  thrust  Sixtine  in  his  arms  while 
asleep,  this  same  force,  according  to  the  most  ele- 
mentary directions,  had,  on  occasion,  very  surely 
joined  their  realities,  as  it  had  joined  their  phan- 
tasms. He  lost  knowledge  of  his  philosophy,  re- 
vealed himself  capable  of  nothing  but  theories — a 
critic  and  not  a  creator  of  life. 

Whether  this  encounter  in  unconsciousness  was 


260  Very  Woman 

the  result  of  a  wholly  personal  hallucination,  or 
whether  both  had  been,  in  their  sleep,  summoned  to- 
wards each  other  by  the  power  of  desire,  and  whether, 
while  she  visited  him,  he,  in  turn,  had  gone  to  her 
— all  this  he  could  not  unravel. 

Yet  he  knew  the  import  and  the  frequency  of  these 
mutual  evocations  and  his  soul  was  a  battlefield 
where  mysticism  had  instantly  vanquished  incredu- 
lity. 

He  went  to  stroll  along  the  quais.  The  winter 
sun  smiled,  the  wind  had  abated,  sparrows  chirped 
on  the  leafless  trees,  a  warm  humidity  vaporized 
the  mild  air. 

Books,  first,  passed  before  his  eyes  as  far  off 
and  inaccessible  things;  then  a  binding  tempted  his 
hand,  an  unknown  title,  his  attention.  He  felt  the 
first  titillations  of  fever,  and  gave  himself  up. 

Now,  one  by  one,  he  touched  them,  opened  them, 
to  acquire  the  certainty  of  the  nothingness  within; 
he  grieved  that  a  pleasant  golden  binding  enclosed 
the  gallant  nonsense  of  little  shivering  verses  of  in- 
digence, or  the  philosophism  of  a  Diderot,  or  the 
worthless  manuals  of  Jansenistic  piety. 

For  a  few  sous  he  had  just  bought  a  treatise  on 
simony  and  haggled  eagerly  with  a  rogue  of  a  vendor 
for  some  Neo-Parnassian  collections — recently  re- 
ceived and  already  depreciated  by  the  universal  in- 
difference— when  a  familiar  hand  was  placed  on  his 
shoulder. 

With  a  twisting  movement,  with  a  natural  but 
sure  insolence,  he  freed  himself,  then  turned  his  head. 


Intoxication  261 

It  was  Marguerin,  the  theosophist,  whose  friends 
excused  his  licentious  folly  as  a  malady  of  the 
cerebellum.  His  play  of  features,  strangely  prom- 
ising, seduced  women  in  search  of  debasement:  he 
was  rich  and  subsidized  an  angelical  review.  This 
day,  a  fixed  idea,  which  he  confided  to  Entragues, 
gave  his  face  an  imbecile  appearance. 

"Dead!  Perhaps  you  remember  that  blond  girl, 
Mai'a!" 

"His  present  phantasy,"  thought  Hubert,  "does 
not  incite  any  repugnance.  Have  I  not  had  the 
madness  of  eyes,  and  am  I  cured  of  it?  Has  not 
the  vision  of  two  large  eyes  ever  been  necesasry  to 
complete  my  happiness?  It  is  strange  that  there 
should  be  this  constant  union  of  two  sensations  so 
different  in  kind,  namely,  visual  sensation  and 
spasm.  Sick,  ah!  an  innate  and  uncurable  sick- 
ness !" 

(While  sipping  absinthe:) 

"Intoxication  is  a  very  noble  passion,  and  I 
would  like  to  acquire  it  ...  Intoxication,  one 
should  rather  say  drunkenness,  but  philanthropists, 
have  brought  the  word  down  to  the  humanitarian 
mud  of  their  Anglican  dissertations  .  .  .  Alcohol- 
ism has  been  contaminated,  no  less  .  .  .  Intoxication 
suffices.  This  absinthe  is  comforting.  The  blond 
Maia  was  perhaps  loved  by  that  wretch.  She  was 
lovely  and  here  is  what  is  left  of  it :  a  pathological  re- 
gret. Why  disdain  intoxication?  It  is  the  most 
intellectual  of  passions ;  it  does  not  depress  like 
gambling;  it  does  not  weaken  like  love.  Ah!  what 


262  Very  Woman 

a  godsend!  Absinthe  is  not  at  all  hurtful;  it  is 
green  and  concentrated  wine.  Is  it  not  ideal  to  be 
able  to  arrive  at  intoxication  with  a  single  glass  of 
liquid?  The  Orientals  have  opium,  but  for  that  is 
needed  the  Oriental  sky.  And  then,  to  each  one 
his  own  system.  The  important  thing  is  that  it 
remove  you  far  from  the  world:  everything  that 
draws  us  away  from  ourselves  is  divine.  How 
many  times  nevertheless,  have  I  been  drunk  with 
pure  contemplation!  yes,  that  too  is  a  method.  All 
are  salutary.  I  hate  myself,  I  wish  to  live  another 
life,  I  wish  to  correct  ideally  the  infirmities  inherent 
in  my  carnal  state,  I  wish  to  deliver  my  soul  from 
the  miseries  of  my  body  ...  I  should  love  her  from 
afar,  as  Guido  loves  his  madonna.  Contact  is  a 
destroyer  of  dreams.  You  will  not  know  the  book 
of  love  where  I  have  beatified  you,  for  it  will  dis- 
appear with  desire,  burned  by  the  flames  of  your 
first  kiss.  The  pyre  that  will  open  heaven  for  you 
will  consume  my  forces:  you  will  ascend  upward 
through  space  and  I  will  fall  like  Satan,  I  will  fall 
into  the  infernal  hells  for  eternity  ...  A  singular 
declamation  and  quite  difficult  to  justify!  All  this 
for  some  pleasure  mutually  shared  by  two  beings 
who  adore  each  other.  The  consequences  of  the 
union  of  the  sexes  are  not  at  all  so  tragic,  ordinarily 
...  I  am  very  much  upset.  It  is  quite  urgent  that 
the  denouement  restores  security  to  one  of  the  actors. 
To  bring  things  back  to  their  true  state :  she  will  be 
troubled  and  I  will  be  calmed — a  very  desirable  re- 
sult. 


Intoxication  263 

"For  the  aim  of  an  intelligent  life  is  not  to 
live  with  the  Princess  of  Trebizond,  but  to  explain 
oneself  in  one's  motives  of  action  by  deeds  or  by 
gestures.  Writing  reveals  the  inward  act;  it  is 
much  less  important  to  feel  than  to  know  the  order 
of  sensation,  and  this  is  the  mind's  revenge  on  the 
body:  nothing  exists  save  through  the  Word.  As 
well  say  that  the  Word  alone  exists.  Saint  John, 
the  evangelist,  knew  it,  and  the  Rajah  Ramohun  Roy 
knew  it,  and  others :  Om  and  Logos :  it  is  the  only 
science;  when  that  is  known  everything  is  known. 
I  will  realize  myself,  accordingly,  through  the  Word 
.  .  .  And  you  ?  What  shall  I  do  with  you  and  your 
soul!  Ah!  Sixtine,  your  soul  I  shall  drink,  little 
by  little,  in  nightly  and  daily  celebrations,  diluted 
in  the  saliva  of  your  kisses, — like  holy  portions : 
you  will  have  no  existence  save  in  me,  and  you  will 
fortify  me  like  a  spiritual  elixir.  We  shall  be 
hermaphrodites.  Thus  will  unity  be  brought  about : 
and  I  shall  have  renounced,  without  renouncing  you, 
the  chimerical  pursuit  of  a  love  external  to  my- 
self. Ah!  unity  will  not  be  ternary — sin  against 
the  rites !  For  I  do  not  want  carnal  posterity.  May 
my  flesh  be  sterile  and  my  mind  fruitful !  We  shall 
beget  dreams  and  with  our  thoughts  we  shall  people 
the  night  of  space.  We  shall  talk,  and  our  speech, 
diffused  beyond  the  stars,  will  make  the  gloomy 
eternity  of  the  ether  vibrate  eternally.  We  shall 
have  gestures  of  love,  and  the  signs  of  our  love  will 
be  reflected  in  the  innumerable  mirrors  of  the  mole- 
cules of  light.  Yes,  we  shall  amuse  ourselves  with 


264  Very  Woman 

this  illusion,  in  overturning  Laws,  by  our  phantasy, 
for  we  are  not  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  the  world 
dies  of  the  caducity  of  thought  which  creates  it  and 
that  the  stars,  as  well  as  the  nail  of  our  little  finger, 
will  perish  when  death  closes  the  eyes  of  the  last 
man. 

"Ah!  I  mount  very  high,  I  go  very  far.  Like 
a  bomb  my  head  is  filled  with  explosives  and  the 
lucidity  of  my  mind  grows  extremely  bright  .  .  . 
Then  the  novel  will  be  vanquished:  a  new  form  of 
analysis  will  have  been  demonstrated.  The  iden- 
tity of  character  will  be  affirmed  by  its  very  contra- 
dictions and  something  Hegelian  will  relieve  the 
gloomy  simplicity  of  ordinary  creatures  clothed  in 
the  rigidity  of  a  material  style.  The  novel  of  hearts, 
the  novel  of  souls,  the  novel  of  bodies,  the  novel  of 
all  the  sensibilities:  after  this  must  come  the  novel 
of  minds.  As  I  understand  it,  the  word  'soul'  repre- 
sents the  quintessence  of  heart;  mind,  that  is  to 
say  pure  intelligence  in  conflict  with  carnal  incon- 
veniences, was  disdained,  without  doubt,  as  uninter- 
esting. Always,  and  nothing  but  this,  conjunctions 
of  sexes  and  joy.  Oh!  well!  quite  natural!  'to 
possess  the  woman  one  loves.'  But  at  last  there 
are  modern  Antonies  who  have  proposed  other  pur- 
poses to  themselves,  who  have  reduced  all  duties  to 
a  single  duty — to  conform  one's  life  to  one's  dream. 
Passersby  who  jostle  you  proceed  dreaming  of  the 
universal  idealism  as  seriously  as  you  of  the  surprises 
of  perfected  corsets.  And  some  of  them,  if  the 
beast  asks  for  oats  will  answer:  'Death's  white 


Intoxication  265 

horse  did  not  eat  any  of  it.'  And  do  you  not 
suppose  that  if  humiliating  forces  curve  their  re- 
fractory knees  before  a  woman,  they  will  not  have, 
very  often,  recourse  to  the  consolation  of  inward 
irony?  In  fine,  I  affirm  the  cerebral  life — and  all 
the  rest  was  written  in  manuals  of  psychology. 

"Irony  is  but  a  momentary  protest,  a  mental  de- 
struction and  a  pledge  against  the  excess  of  sensual 
satisfaction;  it  is  not  a  certain  way  of  liberation. 
From  this  halting-place  one  gradually  mounts  to 
a  dominating  position  by  pride  or  by  contemplation, 
by  art  or  by  mysticism.  These  methods,  known 
in  their  principle,  are  denied,  like  fairy-like  child- 
ishness :  in  the  novel  they  must  be  given  the  impor- 
tance they  have  in  daily  life :  As  an  animal,  man 
thought  only  of  perfecting  his  animalism ;  and 
Christianity  was,  one  thinks,  a  notable  spiritual  ad- 
vance. It  endowed  simple  humanity  with  a  complex 
soul.  When  Flaubert  wrote  Salammbo,  he  instinc- 
tively made  the  young  priestess  a  Carmelite  rather 
than  a  Vestal,  for  the  Vestal  obeys  an  order  and  the 
Carmelite  a  love;  one  is  attached  to  her  position 
through  habit,  the  other  through  love.  The  idyl, 
the  satire  of  customs,  the  picaresque  romance,  the 
tragic  and  fatal  passion,  the  patriotic  epic,  the  am- 
orous plaint, — the  ancients  had  no  other  literature : 
the  first  histories  of  a  soul,  the  first  analytical  novel 
was  spontaneously  born  in  the  new  genius  of  a 
Christianized  mind  and  it  was  Saint  Augustine  who 
wrote  it.  Modern  literature  commences  with  the 
Confessions. 


266  Very  Woman 

"We  must  return  to  it.  Zola  and  others  may  con- 
tinue to  catalogue  their  inferior  animals,  they  have 
no  interest  for  us :  they  are  crude  creatures  about 
to  acquire  light,  chrysalid  intelligences :  we  are  little 
concerned  with  the  quality  of  the  food  with  which 
they  gorge  themselves,  or  with  their  pruriencies. 
Whatever  is  not  intellectual  is  foreign  to  us. 

"What  a  disconcerting  irony  that  in  this  century 
which  drinks  the  blue  democratic  wine  from  the 
Chalice,  no  original  prose  writer  was  revealed  who 
was  not  Christian  by  instinct  or  belief,  desire  or 
necessity,  love  or  disgust, — from  Chateaubriand  to 
Villiers  and  Huysmans,  and  no  true  poet,  from 
Vigny  to  Baudelaire  and  Verlaine! 

"Comte  has  not  touched,  with  his  heavy  stones, 
the  souls  he  wanted  to  overwhelm, — no  more  than  an 
infant  who  hurls  tiny  pebbles  from  the  strand  at 
the  inaccessible  flight  of  gulls !  And  this  very  age, 
which  claims  to  admit  only  the  force  that  is  mathe- 
matically proved,  will  be  extinguished  by  verbal 
idealism.  People  will  no  longer  believe  in  things, 
but  in  the  mere  ideas  we  have  of  them;  and,  as 
the  obscurity  of  the  idea  is  clarified  only  by  speech, 
nothing  more  of  things  will  exist  than  the  words 
describing  them  and  the  final  destruction  of  matter 
will  end  with  the  judgment  of  this  axiom:  The 
universe  is  the  sign  of  the  word  .  .  ." 

"But,"  reflected  Hubert  again,  as  he  left  the  cafe, 
"this,  and  my  scorn  of  a  derisive  reality  and  illu- 
sive truth,  does  not  imply  laziness  in  art,  or  coward- 
ice, or  the  approximate.  Nor  has  the  idealism  I 


Intoxication  267 

profess  anything  in  common  with  the  vague  intuitions 
of  those  spinners  of  psychological  ribbons, — it  is 
a  documented  idealism,  solidly  erected,  like  the  orna- 
mented portal  of  a  cathedral,  upon  the  foundations 
of  accuracy  ..." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

AN  EVENING  IN  SOCIETY 

"En  resume,  la  fete  me  paraissait  un  bal 
de  fantomes. 

Villiers  de  1'Isle-Adam,  I' Amour 
supreme. 

HUBERT  gladly  mingled  in  the  conversations, 
dances,   scandals,  the  many    (rather  charm- 
ing) frivolities  which  took  place  from  eleven  o'clock 
in  the  evening  until  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  at 
the  home  of  the  Countess  Aubry. 

Flowers,  music,  vocal  screeches  and  caresses, 
shoulders,  diamonds,  bedizened  uniforms,  for  the 
countess  had  connections  with  foreign  diplomacy. 

Sixtine,  an  augural  apparition,  appeared  through 
the  clinking  Japanese  portiere ;  one  of  her  hands 
played  with  her  multicolored  pearls. 

She  advanced,  Moscowitch  behind  her,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  her  pure  shoulders.  His  huge  stature 
dominated  the  young  woman  by  a  whole  head;  he 
walked  after  her  and  Sixtine,  faltering,  seemed  a 
very  little  girl  kept  in  leading-strings  by  a  giant. 
Hubert,  with  a  bow  of  impertinent  familiarity,  passed 
between  them  and  offered  Sixtine  his  arm  towards 
a  chair.  The  Russian,  resigned,  joined  a  group  of 
men  and  watched  the  talkers. 
268 


An  Evening  in  Society  269 

"You  looked  as  though  you  were  under  the  guard- 
ianship of  that  strong  man,  and  I  wanted  to  deliver 
you." 

She  began  to  laugh,  quite  an  enigmatical  laugh : 

"No,  he  doubtless  followed  me  for  pleasure,  want- 
ing to  have  me  under  his  eyes.  Can  a  woman  at  a 
ball  do  anything  better  than  let  herself  be  seen?" 

"And  is  it  not  a  keen  pleasure,"  returned  Hubert, 
"to  reveal  one's  arms,  shoulders  and  neck?  .  .  ." 

"Very  keen,  no,  but  really  the  desires  one  evokes 
murmur  in  the  ears  like  a  flight  of  vernal  butterflies 
and  the  rustling  of  their  wings  is  sometimes  soothing 
to  the  skin.  You  cannot  understand,  it  is  too  femi- 
nine." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Hubert  with  a  tender  but  un- 
deniable irony.  "Woman  is  a  religion  full  of  mys- 
teries. I  wish  merely  to  adore  without  understand- 
ing, to  kneel  in  the  gloom,  my  eyes  unraised  towards 
the  symbolic  little  red  lamp :  joyous  mysteries  and 
sad  mysteries,  to  contemplate  them  alternatively, 
to  know  them  never,  perhaps,  in  their  secret  essence, 
and  to  love  the  dear  creature  whose  emanation  they 
are." 

She  raised  her  saddened  eyes  towards  him,  then, 
with  a  little  anger : 

"Poet  and  lying  poetry!  Tenderness  is  on  your 
lips  and  not  in  your  heart.  Do  you  remember  our 
first  meeting,  under  the  drooping  branches  of  the 
old  sacred  firs,  down  there,  in  the  gloomy  avenue? 
You  declared  that  nothing  exists  except  through 
an  evoking  will.  I  remember  it,  and  since  then  your 


270  Very  Woman 

words,  often  meditated,  have  acquired  a  terrible  and 
clear  meaning.  You  love  a  dream  creature  which 
you  have  incarnated  under  a  semblance  which  is 
mine ;  you  do  not  love  me  as  I  am,  but  as  you  have 
made  me.  You  do  not  love  a  woman,  but  a  heroine 
of  a  romance,  and  everything  for  you  is  but  a  ro- 
mance. ...  I  will  tell  you  about  this  at  greater 
length  some  other  time,  if  I  have  leisure.  Ah! 
my  friend,  there  often  is  much  charm  in  you,  ah! 
if  you  wished  and  if  you  knew!  .  .  .  Do  some- 
thing to  make  me  love  you  sufficiently  to  resign  my- 
self to  be  loved  as  the  moving  shadow  of  a  dream. 
Do  this  .  .  .  but  what  do  I  know?  To-morrow, 
I  shall  perhaps  give  you  merely  a  brief  no.  Per- 
haps it  will  be  too  late  to-morrow.  Trust  no  woman, 
even  the  sincerest.  Their  flight  is  as  capricious  as 
the  flight  of  a  swallow;  this  one  flies,  that  one  .  .  . 
They  go  whither  their  caprice  takes  them  and  then 
.  .  .  and  then  they  follow  the  sun  and  kisses  are  fas- 
cinating beams.  ...  Do  you  find  that  I  seem  to  be 
giving  you  a  course  in  seduction,  according  to  my 
practice.  Ah !  perhaps  it  would  be  better  were  you 
contented  with  the  dream.  You  could  shape  it  ac- 
cording to  your  desire,  while  I,  for  example,  will  I 
not  be  malleable  in  vain,  if  I  revolt  against  your 
candor?  Good-by,  the  countess  has  beckoned  to 
me  and  you  know  that  I  am  her  right  hand  on  all 
grand  occasions.  .  .  .  Good-by,  Hubert,  oh !  we  shall 
doubtless  meet  once  or  twice  in  the  course  of  the 
evening  .  .  .  Why  not?  We  have  so  many  things 
to  say  to  each  other  .  .  .  Give  me  your  arm." 


An  Evening  in  Society  271 

"Strange  creature,  yet  you  belong  to  me!  In- 
extricable problem,  I  shall  decipher  you  by  force 
of  love,  for  love  is  the  golden  key  which  opens  all 
women's  hearts.  You  have  the  evangelical  good 
will,  you  wish  to  love,  you  will  love,  and  whom 
could  you  love  except  me?  I  shall  have  the  curios- 
ity to  admit  all  your  phantasies,  even  those 
which  make  me  suffer;  I  do  not  dislike  torture: 
this  helps  one  to  reflect  on  the  inconveniences  of 
being  a  man." 

"Are  you  enjoying  yourself?" 

It  was  Calixte,  satisfied  to  exhale  his  ennui  with 
this  simple  interrogation. 

"I  am  not  bored,  first,  for  secret  reasons,  then, 
there  are  some  pretty  dresses.  It  would  be  pleasant 
perhaps  to  imagine  the  nude;  it  is  quite  another 
matter  to  contemplate  it:  not  one  woman  in  ten 
gives  the  slighest  desire  to  see  more  of  her.  One 
can  be  diverted  for  an  hour  or  two  in  phonograph- 
ing  some  fragments  of  the  conversations  in  one's 
memory.  But  it  is  too  early;  this  becomes  some- 
what eccentric  only  around  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

"And  also,"  said  Calixte,  "to  trouble  some  naive 
hearts  with  burning  avowals." 

"Ah!"  answered  Hubert,  "are  you  become  a  dilet- 
tante? Yes,  this  is  quite  a  sadistic  pleasure  .  .  ." 

"Nevertheless  .  .  ." 

"Oh!"  continued  Hubert,  "the  casuists,  whom 
fools  scorn,  were  profound  analysts  of  human  na- 
ture. They  gave  concessions  to  love  which  the 


272  Very  Woman 

modern  Malthusians  find  extreme,  the  hypocrites! 
And  in  this  is  manifest  their  wisdom  and  a  marvel- 
lous intuition  about  physiological  needs.  There 
is  not  a  kiss  which  the  disdainful  boldness  of  Ligouri 
does  not  concede  to  the  sadness  of  flesh ;  nothing  as- 
tonishes him  and  he  condemns  the  most  complex 
satiations  as  only  venial,  provided  the  dignity  of  the 
act  be  consecrated  by  the  supreme  finality." 

Calixte  was  too  spontaneous  to  like  casuistry. 

"Destiny,"  he  told  Hubert,  "should  have  made  you 
a  monk  in  a  Spanish  monastery  of  the  sixteenth 
century." 

"Ah!"  acquiesced  Hubert,  "with  the  grace  of 
God  I  should  have  written  fine  folios." 

"But  you  are  living  in  the  world,  in  an  age  little 
given  to  procreation,  and  if  you  put  your  theories 
to  practice  .  .  ." 

"You  well  know,"  interrupted  Hubert,  "that  I  am, 
practically,  abstemious,  and  one  need  not  take  ac- 
count of  accidents.  Ho!  I  should  not  dislike  to 
have  some  progeniture.  If  life  were  better,  it  would 
be  justifiable;  if  it  were  good,  it  would  be  a  strict 
commandment.  But  I  have  the  consciousness  of  my 
wretchedness  and  this  will  spare  existence  to  the 
generations  who  might  have  issued  from  me.  Do 
you  know  my  principle?  It  is  short,  strict,  and  I 
would  wish  it  universal :  No  children." 

Renaudeau  and  Andre  de  Passavant  approached. 

"Oh!"  continued  Hubert,  "practically,  it  would  be 
absurd  and  terrible,  but,  the  principle  admitted,  its 
too  numerous  violations  would  suffice  for  an  always 


An  Evening  in  Society  273 

excessive  peopling.  I  should  accept  this  cross,  if 
it  were  necessary.  My  children  would  bear  life 
as  I  bear  it,  without  joy  but  without  despair.  The 
transcendent  rascal  has  not  killed  all  the  swans!" 

"Not  yet,  but  he  will  kill  them  all,"  said  Andre. 
"The  lakes  will  be  deserted  and  the  forests  silent, 
for  they  no  longer  will  have  souls  to  people  the  lakes 
with  dreams  and  the  forests  with  ideal  music. 
Then  fire  will  lay  waste  the  terrestial  marsh  .  .  ." 

"And  we  shall  begin  again  at  the  beginning,"  in- 
terrupted Renaudeau. 

He  disappeared  without  adding  anything  further, 
and  Passavant,  who  followed  him  with  his  eyes, 
explained  this  sudden  flight  by  seeing  him  glide 
swiftly  towards  Madame  Aubry,  who  was  smiling  at 
him : 

"They  claim  that  he  has  already  succeeded  in 
undermining  Fortier  and  that  he  is  going  to  re- 
place him  in  the  review,  if  it  is  not  already  effected 
— and  elsewhere,  naturally." 

"It  was  to  be  foreseen,"  said  Hubert.  "But  as 
for  myself,  I  shall  not  submit  to  his  impertinences. 
If  a  few  friends  wished  to  follow  me,  I  should  sacri- 
fice whatever  sums  were  necessary  to  start  a  maga- 
zine that  will  be  stricter  in  its  choosing." 

"And    slightly    theological?"    added    Passavant. 

"Mystic  theology  in  fine  style  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,"  responded  Hubert,  suddenly  absent- 
minded. 

He  instantly  recalled  that  the  present  imposed 
other  thoughts  upon  him.  For  the  first  time  in  his 


274  Very  Woman 

life,  perhaps,  he  escaped  the  exclusive  domination  of 
art.  Sixtine  arose  before  his  vision  of  the  world 
like  a  gigantic  tree  whose  boughs  and  shadows  con- 
ceal the  thick  woods  stretching  behind  it. 

"What!     Baillot  here!"  said  Passavant,  shocked. 

"What  has  he  done  to  you?"  asked  Calixte. 

"Do  you  not  remember  that  he  denounced  Des- 
noyers,  the  architect  of  Mont  Saint-Michel,  as  a 
clerical?" 

"I  have  seen,"  said  Hubert,  "his  restorations, 
and  they  are  admirable.  When  the  years  will  have 
covered  the  too  fresh  richness  with  its  patina,  they 
will  be  masterpieces  marvelously  harmonizing  with 
the  architectural  creations  of  ancient  time.  But  I 
believe  that  it  is  just  because  he  is  a  believer  that  he 
was  able  to  reconstitute,  as  much  by  love  as  by  sci- 
ence, such  superb  testimonies  of  a  Christian  epoch. 
What  would  you,  a  Maecenas  was  needed  and  they 
got  a  pedant!" 

At  this  moment,  Moscowitch  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  Entragues.  The  Russian  knitted  his 
eyebrows,  but  a  smile,  at  the  same  instant,  extenu- 
ated it: 

"My  dear,  for  the  moment  I  renounce  my  dra- 
matic projects.  This  damp  winter  is  unfavorable 
to  me,  and  I  am  going  to  pass  a  few  months  in 
the  south.  Thanks  for  all  your  excellent  advice. 
They  have  helped  me  beyond  your  hopes." 

This  tone  of  haughty  irony  displeased  Entragues, 
who  answered : 

"Take  care,  Monsieur.     Are  you  so  sure  of  being 


An  Evening  in  Society  275 

at  such  a  stage  where  absence  cannot  injure  you? 
Do  you  leave  with  the  certainty  of  receiving  letters 
of  recall?  Think  that  more  than  another  I  am 
interested  in  a  denouement  to  which  I  have  not  been 
a  stranger.  Calixte,  my  friend,  give  Monsieur 
Moscowitch  a  commentary  of  the  thirty-fourth  chap- 
ter of  Stendhal.  Madame  Magne,  I  think,  has  a 
word  to  tell  me,  and  I  am  going  to  her." 

He  had  perceived  Sixtine  visibly  bored  by  some 
fool's  compliments. 

"At  least,"  he  thought,  "she  will  be  thankful  to 
me  for  having  delivered  her." 

Moscowitch  patiently  listened  to  Calixte  whose 
amusing  discourse  on  discretion  yet  seemed  to  him 
a  contrived  raillery.  During  this  torture,  Hubert 
sought  to  resume  his  interrupted  talk  with  Sixtine. 
But  she  was  distracted  and  almost  meditative.  Hu- 
bert related  to  her  the  poetry  of  his  desire  and  she 
gazed  at  him,  without  having  the  air  of  understand- 
ing. Playing  with  her  dance  card,  she  said: 

"You  have  not  even  had  the  idea  of  putting  your 
name  here  and  I  am  no  longer  free.  Those  who 
have  requested  to  dance  with  me  will  come,  each  in 
proper  turn,  to  claim  the  promised  minutes,  and,  you 
see,  it  is  full." 

Hubert  took  the  little  card  and  read  the  inscribed 
names : 

"Well,  sacrifice  one  of  these  persons  for  me,  the 
Russian  for  example.  That  would  be  specially 
agreeable." 

"No,"  said  Sixtine,   "that  is  not  possible." 


276  Very  Woman 

"I  see  that  you  take  to  the  man,  even  more  than 
to  his  portrait." 

"What  portrait?" 

"That  one  signed  with  initials  which  belongs  to 
your  name,  and  which  was  dedicated,  still  in  ab- 
breviation, to  Monsieur  Sabas  Moscowitch  .  .  ." 

"Ah !  that  amusement  of  a  rainy  afternoon  ?  .  .  . 
Is  my  past  not  sacred  to  you,  then  ?" 

"It  dismays  me.  What  I  do  not  know  bewilders 
me  ...  I  want  to  know." 

"But  what  do  you  gain  by  tormenting  me  thus? 
And  by  what  right  do  you  ask  such  questions  ?  You 
are  wicked  to  make  me  suffer  in  my  soul  and  flesh. 
Leave  me,  or  I  shall  tell  you  cruel  things  .  .  ." 

"I  can  listen  to  them." 

"No,  really,  I  am  tired,  ah !  how  tired  I  am !" 

And  her  eyes  repeated  the  avowal  of  her  lips. 

"But,"  she  continued,  "let  us  have  a  truce,  I  want 
to  amuse  myself,  I  want  to  forget,  in  purely  nervous 
excitements,  the  struggle  I  am  engaged  with.  Leave 
me  to  my  partners  and  come  to-morrow.  I  am  very 
much  disturbed.  Come  with  confidence :  no  one  has 
as  many  privileges  with  me  as  you  have,  Hubert, 
but  think  of  all  that  can  happen  in  a  second,  a  single 
brief  second.  Here  is  Monsieur  de  Fortier  come  to 
claim  me  ...  A  demain!" 

Then,  instead  of  rejoining  his  friends,  he  strolled 
about,  insinuating  himself  into  groups,  watching, 
listening. 

A  young  girl,  thin  and  ugly,  despite  large  dark 


An  Evening  in  Society  277 

eyes,  was  languidly  dreaming  in  a  chair.  The  fancy 
seized  him  to  amuse  this  child.  He  bowed  to  her 
and  the  young  girl,  heedless  of  etiquette,  let  her- 
self be  lifted  into  these  strange  arms.  The  waltz 
made  her  little  heart  beat,  her  pale  cheeks  grew 
rosy,  she  pressed  Entrague's  hand  and  in  the  bold- 
ness of  pleasure  let  her  bent  and  radiant  head  fall 
on  his  shoulder.  He  made  her  chat,  treated  her  as 
a  woman,  conducted  her  to  the  refreshment-room, 
made  her  tipsy  with  a  little  champagne  and  a  few 
compliments:  he  was  thanked  with  a  smile,  which 
expressed  the  gift  of  a  life. 

In  bringing  her  back  to  her  place,  he  was  almost 
as  happy  as  she  was  and  he  thought  that  the  only 
happiness  lies  in  giving  happiness  without  demand- 
ing a  return. 

Towards  two  o'clock,  he  resisted  Calixte  Heliot 
who  discreetly  tried  to  draw  him  away.  Later,  he 
saw  Moscowitch,  after  consulting  his  watch,  dis- 
appear into  the  antechamber.  Sixtine  brushed  past 
him  at  the  same  instant ;  she  turned  around,  chatter- 
ing, on  the  arm  of  Renaudeau,  who  seemed  to  be 
telling  her  something  malicious.  For  an  hour,  per- 
haps more,  he  remained  in  the  same  place,  alone  and 
motionless,  watching  her  pass  from  hand  to  hand, 
carefree  and  smiling.  He  watched  with  an  empty 
brain,  rendered  anaemic  by  the  late  hour,  fuddled 
by  the  incessant  bustle.  Finally  the  rooms  began  to 
thin.  While  he  was  hesitating  to  offer  himself  to 
Sixtine  as  an  escort,  she  vanished,  flying,  without 


278  Very  Woman 

turning  her  head,  like  a  woman  quite  decided  to  re- 
fuse or  to  accept  only  with  boredom  and  bad  grace 
the  arm  of  a  man. 

He  suffered  her  to  leave,  went  to  compliment  the 
countess,  bowed  to  the  young  girl  who  gave  him  her 
hand,  drank  a  last  glass  of  punch,  so  as  to  be  less 
affected  by  the  morning  chill,  then  departed  in  his 
turn  and  returned  on  foot  to  his  dwelling. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

POETIC  RAPTURE 

"Quand  le  monde  fait  peur,  quand  la  foule 

fatigue. 

Quand  le  coeur  n'  a  qu'un  cri: — 
Te  voir,  te  voir,  te  voir !" 

Mme.  Desbordes-Valmore. 

HE  rose  late,  enjoying,  through  the  window 
whose  curtains  were  lifted,  the  wintry  charm 
of  a  pale  noon  sun,  and  delighting  in  the  state  of 
half -consciousness  which  follows,  after  an  irregular 
night,  an  extremely  physical  fatigue.  His  anaemia 
of  a  transplanted  plant,  combatted  and  almost  van- 
quished by  a  regime  that  was  country-like,  returned 
on  such  mornings.  He  felt  the  languor  of  the  con- 
sumptive and  the  melancholia  of  the  adolescent. 

The  substantial  breakfast  arranged  by  his  maid 
was  less  a  comfort  to  his  fatigued  organs  than  an  in- 
toxication. The  smoking  of  a  single  cigarette 
turned  his  head :  he  acquired,  without  having  sought 
it,  an  exquisite  beatitude.  It  was  like  a  new  con- 
dition of  animated  matter:  the  dissolving  state — a 
special  enjoyment  reserved  for  lazy  sleepers  and 
late  break f asters.  Brief,  like  all  delights,  it  was 
not  long  in  waning,  but  it  was  transformed  gradu- 
ally into  an  agreeable  sensation  of  peace. 
279 


280  Very  Woman 

Then,  stretching  an  arm  towards  his  Gothic 
Bible,  he  removed  the  copper  clasp  and  read,  in  a 
cloud  of  blue  smoke,  drinking  strong  coffee  in  little 
sips,  the  aphorisms  of  Ecclesiastes. 

A  reading  decidedly  proper  to  lift  a  wise  man 
far  above  other  men,  a  cup  where  one  drinks  sheer 
emptiness  as  surely  as  in  a  cupule  of  lotus,  ah !  ideal 
banalities,  written,  without  a  doubt,  for  the  days 
that  follow  festivals. 

FORTITUDE 

"Poverty,  labor,  bodily  miseries,  bleeding  heart 
wounds,  bitterness  of  bread  and  wine, 

"Repose,  suppleness,  flowerings,  embraces,  warmth 
of  joyous  repasts, 

"And  all,  and  all  vibrations. 

"The  cerebral  enlightenment: 

"All  this  indifferent  to  us,  from  the  commence- 
ment to  the  end, 

"For  there  is  a  commencement  and  an  end,  and, 
thank  God,  the  soothing  void  is  made  for  all. 

"We  have  confidence  in  the  transcendental  good- 
ness of  the  Creator :  he  will  not  prolong,  beyond 
the  human  term,  our  pains  or  joys. 

"And  not  even  a  shrugging  of  shoulders,  for 
we  are  too  witty  to  rage  against  the  eternal  laws ; 
besides,  we  have  the  sentiment  of  decorum." 

He  was  tired,  as  tired  as  Sixtine,  of  this  dim 
passion.  The  night  of  their  hearts  truly  needed 
some  flashes  of  lightning.  For  a  week  she  had  re- 


Poetic  Rapture  281 

tired  within  herself,  but  like  a  flower  which,  at 
the  approach  of  a  storm,  draws  together  its  trem- 
bling petals  above  the  sacred  pistils ;  the  danger  over, 
they  return  to  their  former  state  and  joyously  re- 
ceive the  fugitive  caress  of  the  passing  pollen. 

"Another  less  metaphorical  reflection :  the  Russian 
has  certainly  made  positive  advances  and  in  his 
plaints  the  magic  word  of  marriage  must,  like  an 
echo,  have  returned  and  reverberated.  Magic  he 
considers  it.  I  do  not  know.  She  must  wish  to 
preserve  a  certain  liberty  of  behavior  and  the  per- 
sonal home  of  a  woman  unaccustomed  to  share  the 
ambient  air  with  another.  Moreover,  I  have  never 
surprised,  in  the  implications  of  her  phrases,  the  least 
allusion  to  a  matrimonial  desire.  I  do  not  believe 
that  she  would  wish  to  close  with  such  a  banal  epi- 
logue the  indefinite  avenue  of  our  common  dreams. 
We  cannot  erect  this  barrier  in  the  midst  of  our  life, 
dividing  in  two  adverbs — before,  after — the  per- 
spective of  our  desires,  that  sphinx  rising  towards 
the  horizontal  profundities  of  the  sky! 

"Ah !  I  regret  that  this  is  not  the  stone  on  which 
her  foot  has  stumbled,  for  I  should  understand  at 
least. 

"After  all,  she  was  only  to  answer  me.  I  think 
that  I  have  been  sufficiently  precise  and  if  acts  rather 
than  words  were  needed,  have  I  not  given  myself 
up  to  acts  ? 

"A  quite  unfortunate  tentative!  .  .  . 

"Ah !  I  am  weary,  as  weary  as  she  is  weary. 

"If  you  do  not  wish  to  drink  the  dew  I  offer  to 


282  Very  Woman 

your  lips  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand,  some  beast, 
bolder  or  wiser,  will  pass,  that  will  refresh  itself 
with  this  drink  of  love. 

"Come  while  it  is  morning  and  while  animal  life 
sleeps  in  the  woods ! 

"Come  to  roam  among  the  wet  herbs :  I  will  shake 
off  the  rain  of  pearls  and  the  snow  flakes  of  dia- 
monds from  your  blond  hair ! 

"Come  and  you  will  exult  with  joy,  come,  the 
train  of  your  robe,  among  the  mosses,  will  make 
a  wake  of  light,  and  the  rising  sun  will  kiss,  in  its 
candor,  the  smile  of  your  purple  lips! 

"Come,  you  will  be  as  a  white-browed  queen 
among  green  branches,  and  the  tame  butterflies  will 
rest  on  your  ears. 

"You  will  subdue  nature  and  at  the  call  of  your 
mouth,  my  soul,  wild  as  a  fawn,  will  bound  to- 
wards you." 

Analyses  and  dithyrambs  formulated  the  same 
slavery.  He  wished  to  make  this  woman  happy,  to 
see  her  eyes  drawn  back  and  her  lips,  by  the  oppres- 
sion of  an  emotion,  opened.  The  evocation  was 
suddenly  effected,  not,  it  is  true,  under  the  direct 
visual  form,  but  in  a  far  away  vaporous  and  volup- 
tuous world.  Kneeling  near  her,  after  the  last  evo- 
lutions of  the  embrace,  he  contemplated  her. 

"Truly  my  life  is  transferred  into  this  woman 
as  under  the  attraction  of  a  magnet,  and  truly  the 
center  of  my  forces  is  in  that  heart! 

"Those  blond  lashes  of  her  blue   eves  are  the 


Poetic  Rapture  283 

chains  of  my  days,  and  the  blond  shadow  of  her 
hair  is  the  halo  of  bright  moons  whose  splendor 
illumines  my  nights." 

He  would  have  proceeded  at  greater  length,  for 
his  words  were  unleased,  but  the  vision  vanished. 

"Presage:     Ah!  pretty  beast!  ah!  pretty  beast!" 

Then  he  reflected  again: 

"All  this  has  been  badly  managed.  I  should  have 
designed,  as  Calixte  suggested,  this  woman  in  the 
pure  role  of  a  Beatrice  exempt  from  carnal  affairs, 
— but  being  a  woman,  she  would  not  have  under- 
stood: Beatrice,  who  lent  herself  to  this  sublime 
play,  was  a  dream  creature,  obeying  the  poet  and  the 
very  symbol  of  his  thought.  This  one  had  to  fall 
into  my  arms,  or  other  arms  would  have  snatched 
her. 

"Remain  on  your  pedestal.  It  is  on  my  knees 
that  I  wish  to  adore  you,  my  hands  outstretched  to 
you,  eternally. 

*'No,  I  grow  weary,  up  there.  Adorer,  adore 
nearer,  adore  with  kisses. 

"Well!  at  least  we  shall  have  some  moments  of 
pleasant  intimacy  and  since  it  is  necessary  to  make 
an  object  of  pleasure  out  of  the  object  of  worship, 
let  the  sacrilege  be  complete  and  the  voluptuousness 
decisive. 

"Ah!  I  shall  abandon  myself  to  your  body  of 
illusions.  Excellent  and  noble  substance,  you  will 
be  kneaded  according  to  the  most  transcendental 
phantasies !" 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  ADORER 
V.— The  Visitation 

"Vous  qui  parlez  d'un  ton  si  doux 
En  m'annonqant  de  bonnes  choses, 
Ma  Dame,  qui  done  etes-vous? 

Verlaine,    Sagesse. 

*  '^^ES,  beloved  Guido,  I  am  the  Queen  of  Angels, 

X     the  Archangelic  Virgin,  the  Morning  Star, 

the  Tower  of  David,  the  Golden  House,  I  am  .  .  ." 

"Oh !  no,  you  are  the  Novella,  do  not  frighten  me, 
I  need  all  my  presence  of  mind." 

"Well,  whatever  you  wish,  but  I  love  you.  Close 
your  eyes,  I  am  inviolate  and  I  feel  myself  blush. 
What  will  you  think  of  me?  Alas!  it  is  really  true 
that  no  one  has  ever  implored  me  in  vain.  I  can- 
not resist  love's  invocations,  and  when  I  am  called 
with  faith,  I  open  the  portal  of  heaven,  and  an  angel 
lifts  me  on  his  wings." 

"Adored  Madonna,"  murmured  Guido,  kissing 
feet  that  were  pure  as  the  dew,  "I  am  unworthy  of 
your  favors  and  see,  my  kisses  are  full  of  tears. 
Virgin  of  all  love,  my  love  was  but  a  drop  of  water, 
and  you  have  taken  it  in  the  holy  lily  of  your  heart. 
Be  blessed  for  your  goodness." 

The  Novella  stooped  towards  the  prisoner  and 
touched  his  face  with  her  lips. 


The  Adorer  285 

She  removed  her  crown  of  stars:  the  stars  took 
wings  to  the  roof  and  made  a  firmament  of  it.  The 
buckle  of  her  girdle  hung  in  the  air  like  a  sun  and 
the  clasp  of  her  cloak  became  a  moon  of  white  nights. 

She  sighed  deeply,  and  from  her  lips  was  born  a 
cloud  that  veiled  the  beaming  glory  of  the  stars 
with  a  vague  charm.  Then  she  said: 

"Guido,  you  have  doubted,  look  and  die  of  love !" 

She  blossomed  into  a  mystic  rose  that  exhaled 
an  adorable  perfume. 

And  Guide's  heart  was  filled  with  sweetness. 

Then  she  became  a  pure  mirror  in  which  flamed 
a  sword. 

And  Guide's  heart  was  filled  with  justice. 

Then  she  became  a  throne  of  cedar  where  graven 
sentences  could  be  read. 

And  Guide's  heart  was  filled  with  wisdom. 

Then  a  vase  appeared  which  was  of  bronze,  then 
of  silver,  then  of  gold;  from  it  issued  clouds  of 
incense  of  cinnamon  and  of  myrrh. 

And  Guide's  heart  was  filled  with  adorations. 

Then  uprose  a  tower  of  ivory  and  other  visions, 
then  a  resplendent  portal  which  Guido  recognized  as 
the  portal  of  heaven,  and  he  commenced  to  wonder 
whether  this  adventure  would  not  finish  as  speciously 
as  his  adventure  with  Pavona. 

Yet  his  heart  was  filled  with  joy. 

"No,  no,  no.  I  belong  to  the  angels.  Die, 
become  an  angel,  throw  off  this  flesh  which  would 
soil  me,  assume  the  celestial  form,  and  we 


286  Very  Woman 

shall  see,  Guido.  Remember  that  I  am  inviolate. 
I  repeat,  I  belong  to  the  angels  .  .  .  You  have  seen 
this!" 

And  with  this  last  irony,  the  Most  Prudent  Virgin 
disappeared,  as  she  had  come,  through  the  lock. 

An  aromatic  odor  filled  the  cell.  Guido  delight- 
edly inhaled  these  virginal  remains,  then  told  him- 
self: 

"She  is  right,  I  must  die.  Besides,  I  owe  her  a 
visit." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

ANGER 

"Lui  ne  vous  connait  plus.    Vous  1'  Ombre 

deja  vue 

Vous  qu'  il  avait  couchee  en  son  ciel  tout  nue, 
Quand  et  etait  un  Dieu.  .  .  ." 

Tristen  Corbiere,  les  Amours  jaunes. 

IT  was  the  maid  who  made  inquiries.  She  knew 
nothing,  did  not  understand.  Madame  had  cer- 
tainly returned,  but  the  bed  had  not  been  used,  only 
rumpled,  as  if  she  had  lain  upon  it  fully  dressed. 
The  closet  was  open  and  the  dressing  table  in  an  un- 
wonted disorder,  for  Madame  had  never  failed  to 
place  all  her  little  belongings  carefully. 

"I  should  say/'  she  continued,  "that  Madame  has 
left  for  a  trip  on  the  go,  as  you  might  say,  but 
I  have  not  found  the  ball  dress.  No  one  goes  far 
in  a  ball  dress !  When  I  came  down  at  seven 
o'clock,  things  were  as  I  have  told  you  and  since  then 
I  have  been  waiting,  very  uneasy,  I  assure  you.  And 
does  Monsieur  know  nothing?" 

"Nothing,"  answered  Entragues.  "She  must 
have  returned  about  half  past  four,  or  at  five  o'clock 
at  the  most.  But  come,  if  she  had  left  for  a  trip, 
at  least  a  street  dress  would  be  missing,  a  hat,  some 
necessary  objects,  and  especially  a  traveling  bag, 
a  valise." 

287 


288  Very  Woman 

"The  bags,  valises  and  trunks  are  above  a  dark 
closet,  near  my  room.  She  would  have  to  pass 
through  my  room  to  get  to  it.  As  for  dresses  and 
the  rest,  the  wardrobe  is  locked  with  a  key  and  I  do 
not  know  where  the  keys  are.  But  Madame  always 
carries  them  with  her." 

Entragues  asked  : 

"Are  you  sure  that  she  returned?" 

"She  did  return.  After  Madame's  departure, 
yesterday,  I  put  everything  in  order,  I  even  smoothed 
the  bed  in  which  she  had  thrown  herself  for  a  mo- 
ment after  dinner.  It  is  Madame's  habit  when  she 
goes  to  a  ball.  And  this  morning  the  bed  was  dis- 
ordered. Yet  Madame  is  not  heavy,  and  usually, 
when  she  sleeps,  one  can  hardly  see  the  mark  of 
her  body." 

"Well,"  said  Entragues,  giving  his  address  and 
a  few  coins  to  the  maid,  "if  you  learn  anything,  come 
and  tell  me.  I  am  as  uneasy  as  you  are,  Azelia. 
Come  to-morrow  morning,  at  any  rate,  perhaps  I 
shall  have  news." 

He  departed.  In  the  street,  his  calm  grew  agi- 
tated. 

"I  am  deceived,"  he  cried,  "scandalously  de- 
ceived !" 

He  opened  his  umbrella  so  violently  that  the  silk 
snapped;  then  he  smashed  it  against  the  edge  of  the 
sidewalk,  threw  it  into  the  gutter,  and,  under  the 
heavy  and  frigid  fog,  reached  the  end  of  the  boule- 
vard Saint-Germain,  near  the  quai  Saint-Bernard. 

There,  in  a  blind  alley,  amid  huts,  stood  a  little 


Anger  289 

furnished  house,  patronized  by  Russian  students  and 
having  the  name  of  the  Hotel  de  Moscow. 

"Monsieur  Moscowitch." 

"Monsieur  Moscowitch  left  this  morning  for 
Nice.  Does  Monsieur  wish  his  address?  Grand 
Hotel  des  Deux-Mondes." 

"Thank  you." 

"The  hotel  is  good,  well  situated.  I  spent  a  pleas- 
ant week  there,  the  other  winter.  If  I  had  known 
of  your  decision,  Madame,  I  should  have  recom- 
mended the  room  I  occupied,  for  the  view  through 
its  sunny  windows  is  delightful.  Ah!  just  a  year 
ago  from  to-day.  I  am  becoming  tranquil !" 

He  slowly  walked  as  far  as  the  boulevard  Saint- 
Michel,  under  the  pitiless  rain  which  now  fell  in  fine 
and  penetrating  needles. 

"This  Russian  was  imprudent  in  giving  his  ad- 
dress in  advance!  For  I  might  go  to  trouble  the 
first  peace  of  this  improvised  honey-moon  by  a  duel. 
So,  at  midnight  she  gives  me  a  rendezvous  for  the 
next  evening  at  her  home,  and  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning  she  yields  to  Moscowitch  in  her  own  home, 
in  her  ball  dress,  and  at  about  seven  o'clock  the  two 
lovers  take  the  express  for  Nice.  Either  it  was  well 
planned,  and  she  decoyed  me  shamefully  or,  as  I 
think,  it  is  a  matter  of  an  impromptu  affair  and 
she  held  her  modesty  of  soul  in  contempt  so  as  to 
repel  me.  It  is  evident  that  Moscowitch  waited  for 
her  at  the  door  of  the  Aubry  mansion,  in  a  carriage, 
and  that  she  let  herself  be  carried  off.  Ah!  he  is  a 
clever  rascal.  I  am  quite  anxious  to  have  some  de- 


290  Very  Woman 

tails.  If  he  really  followed  my  ironic  advice,  if  the 
plan  I  gave  him  was  good,  I  am  ...  I  am  truly 
below  the  most  na'ive  school  boy.  Well !  there  still 
remains  for  me  the  satisfaction  of  a  dilettante:  I 
have  not  myself  won  the  battle,  but  like  a  staff- 
chief  major  general,  I  have  directed  the  victory's 
course.  Yes,  in  short,  I  am  the  organizer  of  my 
own  defeat.  .  .  .  Now,  it  is  a  matter  of  producing 
a  strict  reasoning  and  not  to  lose  myself  in  the  by- 
ways of  analysis.  A  proof?  There  is  none,  or  not 
yet.  I  should,  to  the  very  end,  respect  the  dignity 
of  my  sentiment.  Coincidences,  probabilities,  but  in 
the  end  she  will  give  me  an  explanation.  Then  I 
shall  judge.  What  reproaches?  She  has  followed 
her  pleasure." 

He  entered  a  cafe  where  warm  drinks  comforted 
him.  At  this  moment  he  perceived  that  he  was 
pierced  with  cold  and  that  his  hands  were  shivering. 
It  was  not  only  with  cold  that,  he  trembled,  but  his 
pride  would  not  admit  it  and  haughtily  clothed  itself 
in  the  cloak  of  irony.  He  did  not  even  admit  that 
his  heart  could  bleed  under  a  real  wound ;  the  griefs 
where  he  condescended  to  quench  his  original  thirst 
were  divine,  voluntary,  and  not  the  work  of  a  human 
hand.  He  possessed  to  a  high  degree  the  art  of 
crucifying  and  stigmatizing  himself,  like  a  visionary, 
of  leading  his  wounded  heart  to  frightful  tortures,  to 
a  slow  agony ;  he  had  the  art  of  being  his  own  exe- 
cutioner. He  had  voluntarily  sweated  with  anguish, 
but  that  the  gentle  thrust  of  a  woman's  delicate 
gauntlet  should  drive  the  crown  of  thorns  into  his 


Anger  291 

skull,  no,  no,  no!  "For  after  all,  complicity  is  es- 
sential to  suffering  and  it  must  be  voluntary;  and 
that  is  a  favor  no  creature  will  ever  obtain  from 
me." 

Quite  honestly,  he  reflected : 

"At  least  it  was  brief  and  the  commencement, 
middle  and  end  took  three  months.  There  are  many 
days  to  revive  in  this  trilogy  of  zodiacs.  Thus,  that 
first  meeting  which  she,  the  traitress,  recalled  her- 
self, yesterday  evening.  Residual  sensations  still 
vibrate  in  my  nerves  and  I  hear  "the  wind  pass, 
stirring  the  dry  leaves."  May  they  sound  in  your 
ears,  too,  Sixtine,  and  may  the  sound  of  their  pur- 
suit sadden,  like  the  tattoo  of  a  rattle-snake,  the 
"delicate  landscape"  where  moves  your  captive  soul ! 
You  asked  to  be  plundered,  treasure :  well !  now  you 
are  a  prisoner  of  the  flesh,  adore  your  prison,  your 
chains,  and  your  jailer. 

"This  journey  was  for  me  the  occasion  of  a  re- 
turn to  my  youth:  these  renewals  are  anthologies, 
but  what  if  it  were  necessary  to  re-read  the  entire 
book,  letter  by  letter!  Oh!  no,  oh!  no.  And  no 
more  than  the  vendor  of  almanacks  de  Leopardi, 
will  I  give  my  consent :  'Oh !  no !  but  another, 
monsieur,  one  quite  new!'  Ah!  oxydized  hearts 
aspiring  after  the  virginity  of  a  new  stamp,  you  will 
fall  into  the  crucible!  Ah ! .patience,  we  shall  enjoy 
the  devouring  liquefaction:  and  our  molecules  will 
return  into  the  matrix  and  other  coins  of  divinity 
will  continue  our  broken  circulation, — other  coins 
eternally  the  same! 


292  Very  Woman 

"Wretched  logic:  these  three  months  of  my  life 
are  dominated  by  an  absurdity  which  will  decide 
its  disposition,  like  a  lunar  play  in  an  old,  used 
mirror. 

"Sixtine,  it  will  be  good  of  you  to  tell  me  that 
legend,  now  that  you  no  longer  need  reserve  the 
charm  of  mysteries,  this  one  and  the  other,  you 
know  which  one,  that  of  the  poison ! — Ah !  to  think 
that  I  shall  never  know  it, — no  more  than  the  color 
of  your  eyes  when  they  open  to  the  morning  light. 

"When  I  returned  to  'my  enlarged  room,'  it  was 
finished,  you  possessed  me.  But  know  that  it  was 
not  without  inward  struggles  and  that  many  affec- 
tions, already  old,  divided  a  large  and  profound 
heart.  Also  learn  that  at  that  time  Madame  du 
Boys  was  not  without  attractions  for  me,  in  her  so 
ingenuously  perverse  naivete, — and  had  you  not 
come,  I  should  have  made  perhaps  another  little  trip 
with  her  to  Switzerland.  Ah !  but  you  have  aped 
her!  Sixtine,  has  your  dignity  consented  to  a 
surreptitious  abduction  ?  Send  me  a  bouquet  of  vio- 
lets by  post!  ...  I  should  have  taught  you  the 
play  of  transcendental  pleasantries,  and  you  would 
have  liked  it.  You  are  too  serious,  you  really  ef- 
fect too  much !  You  mistake  accident  for  destiny ; 
it  is  only  a  fragment.  Shake  off,  then,  the  dust  of 
eternity  which  illusion  has  sprinkled  on  your  wings ! 
Have  you  taken  at  least  a  return  ticket?  It  is  eco- 
nomical and  gives  a  value  to  the  landscape,  for, 
without  this  precaution,  one  would  never  think  of 
looking  at  it.  'We  have  plenty  of  time !'  " 


Anger  293 

"If  we  had  left  together,  we  should  first  of  all 
not  have  left  at  all,  for  what  is  the  good  of  moving, 
since  in  every  place  one  remains  the  same  to  him- 
self. Then,  as  I  know  what  to  do  about  carnal 
values  I  should  have  spared  you  many  irritating  sur- 
prises. Finally  ...  ah!  well,  but  is  it  not  within 
my  right  to  believe  that  I  alone  could  have  played  the 
role? 

"Before  I  found  you,  in  your  gestures,  in  the  tacit 
consent  of  your  good  will — a  consent  quite  momen- 
tary, it  appears — my  love  had  already  found  a  paral- 
lel, incarnate  in  Guido  della  Preda.  At  this  hour, 
his  fate  disquiets  me  seriously.  Sixtine,  you  have 
a  murder  on  your  conscience  (that  will  make  two), 
for  if  I  do  not  die  it  will  be  because  Guide's  death 
has  spared  my  life  ...  Yes,  he  must  die  in  my 
place  .  .  . 

"I  saw  you  once  again.  The  evening  clothed 
itself  in  a  charming  minute,  unique  diamond  whose 
resplendence  has  not  left  my  night.  It  was  when 
...  no,  that  is  bitter.  Ah !  in  the  opening  of  that 
stone  was  an  orient  of  psychic  phantasmagories. 
It  was  full  of  softness  and  mildness  and  languor. 
Such  moments  have  no  morrow ;  also,  it  were  better 
never  to  have  lived  in  them.  One  pursues  their 
sisters  who  stroll  on  the  dial-plate,  and  this  can  lead 
far,  to  the  very  depths  of  the  hells  where  gloomy 
victims  lament  over  the  nessum  maggior  dolore. 

"In  subsequent  conversations,  you  appeared  to  me 
as  a  proud,  intelligent  and  sensual  amazon.  Sen- 
suality is  the  ferment  of  feminine  nature:  without 


294  Very  Woman 

this  decisive  gift,  there  might  be  angels,  there  would 
be  no  women.  But  it  is  quite  true  that  I  have  not 
known  how  to  awaken  its  might  and  my  magnetism 
struck  sudden  neutralities.  You  are  not  a  woman 
of  good-will :  your  very  pride  leads  you  to  inoppor- 
tune resistance  where  force  alone  could  be  right! 
It  is  there  that  one  is  the  dupe  of  one's  intelligence ! 
One  must  have  the  strength  to  throw  it  off,  at  certain 
hours,  like  a  cloak  or  like  the  chemise  of  the  Roman 
woman.  For  it  was  not  the  modesty  which  visits 
only  extreme  youth  or  the  first  ignorance :  no,  it  was 
rather  the  intelligence.  You  wished  to  understand 
and  feel  at  the  same  time,  and  for  this  you  took 
pains  to  keep  your  presence  of  mind.  See  how  this 
coincided :  I,  on  my  side,  made  the  same  effort, 
with  less  pain  perhaps.  Both  of  us  knew  well  what 
we  wished,  and  our  wills,  lacking  a  little  salutary 
unconsciousness  were  destroyed  in  their  immobile 
efficacy. 

"Nothing  more.  This  is  sufficient  enlighten- 
ment." 

(This  was  an  infraction  against  his  habits, — but 
a  need  of  personal  security  forced  him  to  hurl  half 
of  himself  through  the  window,  so  as  to  preserve  the 
integrity  of  the  rest:  in  four  hours  of  the  night  he 
reached  the  final  point  of  what  he  now  called  "a 
foolish  anecdote.") 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE  ADORER 
VI. — Memorare 

"Memorare,  pia  Virgo,  non  esse  auditum 
a    saeculo    quemquam    ad    tau     currentem 
praesidia,     tua     implorantem     auxilia,     tua 
petentem   suffragia,    a   te    esse    derelictum." 
Saint   Bernard. 

lord,  my  lord,  hush!  listen!"  exclaimed 
Veltro  during  the  ascent  of  the  tower's 
staircase.  "But  do  not  betray  me!  I  believe  they 
are  interceding  for  you,  for  the  affair  was  infamous, 
if  I  know  aught  about  it.  To-morrow,  my  lord, 
to-morrow,  you  understand,  I  know  that  the  order 
will  come  to  open  the  door  for  you,  but  hush !" 

"What  ?"  Guido,  atremble,  questioned,  "I  shall  be 
free  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,  but  that  is  enough  on  this  subject. 
Only,  I  believe  that  your  lordship  owes  a  present 
to  our  holy  madonna.  She  has  rewarded  your  de- 
votion, she  has  interceded;  it  is  she,  I  am  sure  it  is 
she  .  .  ." 

"Thank  you,  Veltro,  you  are  a  good  man.  The 
first  ducats  that  are  returned  to  me  will  be  for  the 
Novella,  the  second  for  you." 

He  hastened  to  the  accustomed  vision,  but  his 
limbs  gave  way,  his  hands  glanced  over  the  rope- 
295 


296  Very  Woman 

support,  his  heart  beat  like  the  eternal  clock;  he 
required  the  effort  of  supreme  will-power  to  over- 
come dizziness,  to  pass  the  last  steps,  to  fall  on  his 
knees  near  the  balustrade. 

There,  full  of  anguish,  made  giddy  by  the  sudden 
rolling  that  shook  the  tower,  like  a  ship  amid  storm, 
he  felt  himself  fainting,  then  his  eyes  dimmed  and 
he  wept. 

Indifferent  as  a  madonna,  the  Novella  watched 
him  weep. 

Then,  without  transition,  he  felt  in  his  soul  the 
rage  that  dismissed  lovers  feel. 

"What  have  I  done  to  you?  Do  you  find  that  I 
did  not  love  you  with  a  sufficiently  insatiable  love? 
Come,  you  know  well  that  I  belong  to  you :  do  you 
recall  the  pact?  Do  you  wish  me  to  call  you  per- 
jurer? Are  you  a  woman,  after  all?  Woman, 
but  madonna,  and  I  have  no  insults  metaphysical 
enough  to  injure  you.  Yet,  do  not  abuse  your 
virginity,  you  will  force  yourself  to  say  disagreeable 
things.  Well,  we  are  going  to  come  to  terms :  take 
me  as  an  orphan.  Afterwards,  we  shall  see." 

Indifferent  as  a  madonna,  the  Novella  still  watched 
him. 

"Ah!"  Guido  thought,  "she  is  inflexible.  Her 
heart  is  an  eternal  decree.  I  rail  at  her  who  was 
before  Time,  how  stupid!  And  I  sink  into  blas- 
phemous sarcasms  which  her  son  one  day  will  charge 
me  with.  Passion  leads  me  into  error,  but  passion 
above  all  else !" 

"Novella !  adored  madonna,  listen  to  me.     There 


The  Adorer  297 

have  been  times  when  you  were  more  clement.  I 
implore  you,  speak  to  me,  give  me  a  smile.  No? 
Nothing?  Ah!  I  am  deserted!  Think — I  have 
but  you.  The  white  town  straggling  under  your 
divine  feet,  the  blue  sea,  your  immortally  dying 
sister,  the  firmament  less  pure  than  your  inviolate 
soul,  the  roses  which  are  the  perfume  of  your  most 
chaste  thought,  all  that  is  charming  in  nature,  I  love 
as  your  emanation,  as  a  perpetual  Month  of  Mary. 
Ah!  I  shall  recite  to  you  the  rosary  of  my  griefs, 
and  in  the  end  I  shall  crucify  myself  to  please  you! 
You  should  at  least  be  grateful  for  my  reserve: 
was  I  not  proper  when  you  came  to  see  me?  Yet, 
you  loved  me  that  day,  and  what  if  I  had  really  in- 
sisted, O  permanent  Virgin?  .  .  . 

"'How  beautiful  you  are!  Ah!  wonder-working 
beauty,  sacred  beauty!  Ah!  it  is  not  in  vain  that 
the  Infinite  has  dwelt  in  your  bosom:  your  smile 
is  impregnated  with  it  forever.  But  you  no  longer 
wish  to  smile  .  .  . 

"Comfort  me,  through  pity,  since  it  is  written  in 
your  anthems.  Are  you  now  going  to  encourage 
scepticism?  If  you  truly  are  the  consoler  of  af- 
flicted souls,  prove  it,  for  I  am  full  of  affliction. 
Yes,  I  feel  that  it  is  a  wretched  reasoning :  you  do 
what  you  wish  and  your  auxilliary  grace  has  de- 
volved only  on  those  of  good  will.  I  reason  too 
much.  It  is  not  thus  that  one  touches  the  heart  of 
a  woman,  O  woman  of  women,  am  I  not  right? 

"Yet  I  would  like,  before  dying,  once  again  to 
recall  this  to  you:  'Recollect  that  you  have  never 


298  Very  Woman 

been  implored  in  vain!'  If  you  have  no  conde- 
scension for  my  love,  have  some  for  my  madness. 
Do  you  not  perceive  that  I  ramble  incoherently,  and 
to  what  point.  What  would  you,  it  is  thus  when 
one  loves ! 

"So,  we  are  going  to  separate  .  .  . 

"Ah !  virginal  purples !  star-like  dawns !  Ah !  early 
mornings  and  late  tendernesses !  Illusive  universe, 
begone,  shameful  Satan  repulsing  my  caresses!  She 
has  smiled!  Again,  again!  She  opens  her  arms 
to  me !  Ah !  God !  is  it  possible  ?  Yes,  I  knew  it. 
Ah!  of  words,  nothing  is  closed  to  verbal  incanta- 
tions. On  what  does  happiness  depend  ? 

"She  opens  her  arms  to  me,  she  loves  me.  Here 
I  am,  here !  How  I  am  going  to  adore  you,  how 
I  am  going  to  recite  lovely  litanies  to  you,  and  all 
the  essential  orisons.  Nothing  separated  me  from 
you  but  your  will,  and  your  will  accepts  me,  finally 
cleansed  of  human  defilement  by  the  baptism  of 
blood.  Joy  more  indefinable  than  the  immaculate 
conception,  the  virgin  of  virgins  opens  to  the  sinner 
the  ivory  portals  of  pure  love  .  .  ." 

Dreaming  of  such  things,  Guido  leaped  over  the 
balustrade,  precipitantly  towards  the  madonna  who 
awaited  him,  laughing  and  with  outstretched  arms. 
— Ave,  Rosa  speciosa! 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

PRIDE 

"...  Voire  mesme  que  si  un  de  nos  con- 
fraires  se  monstroit  attache  a  quelque  chose, 
qu'il  en  soit  aussistost  prive  .  .  ." 

Regie  de  S.  Benoist,  ch.  xxxviii. 

WHEN  Azelia  presented  herself  the  next  morn- 
ing, her  face  bearing  the  marks  of  tears  and 
trouble,  for  "she  was  now  sure  that  Madame  had 
been  murdered;  never  had  Madame  gone  away  so 
long  without  notifying  her,"  Entragues  was  able 
to  reassure  her : 

"Madame  is  at  Nice,  in  the  Grand  Hotel  des 
Deux-Mondes.  She  arrived  there  yesterday  eve- 
ning, is  in  splendid  health  and  finds  that  the  sea  is 
blue,  so  blue!  And  the  palms  and  the  flowers! 
Everything  is  fragrant.  Never  before  has  she  felt 
how  sweet  life  is!" 

"So  Monsieur  has  received  a  telegram.  Ah! 
good.  But  to  leave  without  telling  me!  If  Ma- 
dame writes,  I  shall  communicate  with  Monsieur, 
for  Madame  loves  Monsieur  very  much." 

"Yes,  we  are,  as  they  say,  a  pair  of  friends." 

A  day  passed,  then  another,  and  Hubert  grew 
really  bored.  It  was  the  sensation  of  emptiness  us- 
299 


300  Very  Woman 

ally  felt  by  all  sensitive  creatures  in  like  occurrences. 

The  light  had  fled  from  him ;  he  moved  in  deserts 
of  dark  expanses. 

No  distraction  is  possible,  since  the  only  being 
from  whom  pleasure  could  come  has  withdrawn 
from  the  visual  field,  since  the  generating  soul  of  all 
joy  has  fled,  since  the  beams  have  perished,  since 
the  night  of  absence  reigns. 

He  could  have  lived  near  her,  removed  by  a  dis- 
tance of  several  streets,  without  any  great  need  of 
visiting.  The  possibility  of  a  meeting,  the  cer- 
tainty of  a  welcome  sufficed  for  the  vitality  of  his 
desires.  Here  rises  the  tyranny  of  the  Spirit  of 
Contradiction  and  its  immutable  disdain  for  the 
present  hour.  Moralists  have  always  quarreled  with 
man  on  this  matter :  "You  do  not  know  how  to  en- 
joy the  fugitive  minute."  No,  but  how  go  about  it, 
since  it  would  be  necessary  that  the  fugitive  min- 
ute suspend  its  flight,  it  would  be  necessary  that  it 
exist.  Now,  it  is  a  vulgar  idea  that  only  the  past 
or  the  future  has  an  appearance  of  objectivity: 
the  moment  never  comes  to  pass. 

Hubert  had  not  even  the  liberty  for  such  ele- 
mentary deductions.  He  suffered  like  an  exile,  a 
pure  suffering  and  with  a  fixed  idea.  Jealousy  in 
no  way  troubled  its  undulations :  it  was  the  unique 
sensation  of  the  lost  object.  His  joy,  fallen  into 
the  sea,  was  lying  under  moving  waves;  with  each 
wave  the  diamond  was  engulfed  in  the  sands  more 
deeply,  and  he  could  not  yet  anticipate  the  tempest 


Pride  301 

which  would  throw  it  on  the  surface,  tossing  it  to 
the  strand  among  the  eternal  pebbles. 

Ah!  the  solitary  dream  house  among  the  dunes 
had  indeed  fallen  to  his  lot  suddenly  and  too  soon. 
He  had  not  had  time  to  arrange  his  parcels,  to  bring 
the  least  illusion — more  bare  of  spiritual  comfort 
than  a  hermit  in  the  desert — of  lust. 

Such  a  state  of  soul  brought  about  this  reaction : 
"I  am  perhaps  deceived  in  the  value  of  these  co- 
incidences. Well,  I  must  not  despair." 

He  delighted  in  this  self -contempt  for  several 
hours,  inhaling  his  baseness  and  wallowing  in  it  as 
in  warm  mire.  Yet  there  were  instants  of  respite, 
and  in  the  evening  he  walked  tranquilly,  with  a  nor- 
mal step,  towards  the  dwelling  of  the  absent  one,  but 
restless  as  a  man  who  is  expected. 

Azelia  opened  the  door  before  he  rang. 

"Monsieur!  ah!  just  look!" 

And  she  drew  a  letter  from  her  dress. 

"Madame  has  written  me,  and  this  is  for  you." 

The  white  envelope  with  the  oblique  water-marks 
bore  no  writing. 

"This  is  prudence!" 

At  the  pressure  of  his  ringers,  he  felt  a  very  thin 
English  onion-skin  paper  within. 

"She  has  written  me  a  volume  here.  Ah!  Pro- 
lixity !  Would  a  word  not  have  sufficed  ? — Adieu !" 

Hubert  was  very  calm  as  he  received  this  sentence 
of  death,  and  his  indifference,  perfectly  acted,  al- 
though for  himself,  scandalized  the  good  Azelia. 


302  Very  Woman 

She  believed  in  kisses,  thought  that  he  would 
press  the  object  to  his  heart,  ejaculating  some  words 
of  tenderness,  as  in  the  romances  and  chromos,  which 
are  painted  romances. 

With  a  "thank  you!"  he  placed  the  letter  in  his 
pocket  and,  pushing  a  door  open,  entered  the  little 
room  in  whose  corners  his  dying  illusions  still 
played,  like  ironic  dryads,  careless  of  the  approaching 
agony. 

"Moriuntur  ridendo." 

A  light  voiceless  laugh  came  from  him : 

"These  are  the  ruins  of  Carthage.  They  are 
well  preserved  and  yet  how  many  centuries  is  it 
since  we  left  them,  already  in  the  state  of  ruins. 
Within  me  generations  have  succeeded;  the  same 
essence  of  humanity  reigns,  the  man  is  another  man. 
Ah!  how  far  away  all  this  is! 

"These  objects  were  once  familiar  to  me :  I  knew 
them.  I  was  a  little  their  master.  They  have  es- 
caped my  hands.  Well !  I  abandon  the  rest.  Let 
all  things  be  transitory.  How  this  breathes  of 
death!  It  is  my  heart  that  is  becoming  decom- 
posed .  .  . 

"Why  read  the  letter  ?  She  laughs  at  me  or  pities 
me,  and  never  have  I  tolerated  the  one  or  the  other." 

He  carried  it  through  the  streets. 

"I  believe  myself,"  he  thought,  "stronger  and 
more  logical.  Have  I  denied  my  old  philosophy  to 
such  a  point?  The  punishment  for  laughing  at 
the  external  world  is  to  fall  in  the  first  snare  laid 
by  the  innocent  Maia,  as  the  theosophist  expresses 


Pride  303 

it.  Could  there  be,  then,  an  invincible  human  na- 
ture more  stable  in  its  versatility  than  the  architec- 
ture of  thought?  Invincible,  no,  since  haughty  con- 
temptuous things  have  conquered  it.  It  is  because 
I  lack  method.  Spiritual  training  is  required.  As 
an  elementary  precaution,  it  will  first  be  necessary 
to  place  attentive  sentinels  at  the  door  of  the  senses, 
ready  to  halt  every  suspected  sensation,  to  admit 
no  one  unless  stripped  of  its  cloak  of  deceit  .  .  . 

"Ah!  I  have  no  lucidity  and  I  am  bored.  No 
remedy,  the  nervous  crisis  will  accomplish  its  cycle. 
It  would  be  somewhat  diverting  to  go  to  Nice  and 
pierce  them  with  my  ironies,  but  afterwards  ?  Then, 
the  vulgarity  of  this  conduct  would  be  repugnant 
and  hardly  fit  for  a  fourth  act:  then,  the  case  of 
pistols,  the  denouement  which  death  hardly  saves 
from  a  ridiculousness  which  is  bourgeois  as  well  as 
theatrical  .  .  . 

"Shall  I  read  this  letter?  I  am  sure  it  is  full  of 
things  which  will  no  longer  interest  me  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  and  struck  the  ground  with  a  savage 
thump  of  his  heel. 

"Shame !  Enough.  No,  for  me  there  are  neither 
Circes  nor  Delilahs.  My  mind  at  least  is  above  all 
wiles  and  lusts.  They  who  fall  into  the  toils  of  the 
swine-breeders,  those  who  are  caught  in  the  snares 
of  elegant  vampires — they  fulfill  their  destiny.  Mine 
is  different.  I  shall  be  cowardly  neither  in  facing 
grief,  nor  in  facing  pleasure,  nor  in  facing  ennui. 
You  will  not  make  me  suffer  beyond  my  will;  and 
neither  you,  nor  any  one  like  you,  can  tempt  me  to 


304  Very  Woman 

other  disobediences.  Even  though  I  be  the  dupe  of 
my  pride,  I  prefer  this  to  being  the  dupe  of 
my  sensitiveness,  and  I  shall  disdain  even  the  mem- 
ory of  the  unconscious  murderess  who  might  have 
overwhelmed  me." 

He  entered  a  cafe  and,  developing  his  brutal 
bravado  to  its  extreme,  wrote,  so  as  to  laugh  at  him- 
self until  the  blood  ran,  strange  and  purposely  false 
verses,  which  Egyptian  readings  had  suggested  to 
him. 

O  pourpiers  de  mon  frere,  pourpiers  d'or  fleur  d'Anhour 
Mon  corps  en  joie  frissonne  quand  tu  m'  as  fait  1'amour, 
Puis  je  m'endors  paisible  au  pied  des  tournesols. 
Je  veux  resplendir  telle  que  les  fleches  de  Hor: 
Viens,  le  kupi  embaume  les  secrets  de  mon  corps, 
Le  hesteb  teint  mes  ongles,  mes  yeux  ont  le  kohol. 
O  maitre  de  mon  coeur,  qu'elle  est  belle,  mon  heure! 
C'est  de  1'eternite  quand  baiser  m'effleure, 
Mon  coeur,  mon  coeur  s'eleve,  ah !  si  haut  qu'il  s'  envole. 

Armoises  de  mon  frere,  6  floraisons  sanglantes, 
Viens,  je  suis  1'Amm  ou  croit  toute  plante  odorante, 
La  vue  de  ton  amour  me  rend  trois  fois  plus  belle. 
Je  suis  le  champ  royal  ou  ta  faveur  moissonne, 
Viens  vers  les  acacias,  vers  les  palmiers  d'Ammonn: 

tveux  t'aimer  a  1'ombre  bleue  de  leurs  flabelles. 
vieux  encore  t'aimer  sous  les  yeux  roux  de  Phra 
boire  les  delices  du  vin  pur  de  ta  voix, 
Car  ta  voix  rafraichit  et  grise  comme  Elel. 

O  marjolaines  de  mon  frere,  6  marjolaines, 

Quand  ta  main  comme  un  oiseau  sacre  se  promene, 

En  mon  jardin  pare  de  lys  et  de  sesnis, 

Quand  tu  manges  le  miel  dore  de  mes  mamelles, 

Quand  ta  bouche  bourdonne  ainsi  qu'un  vol  d'abeilles 

Et  se  pose  et  se  tait  sur  mon  ventre  fleuri, 


Pride  305 

Ah !    je  meurs,  je  m'en  vais,  je  m'effuse  en  tes  bras 
Comme  une  source  vive  pleine  de  nympheas, 
Armoises,  marjolainse,  pourpiers,  fleurs  de  ma  vie! 

Following  this,  Hubert  returned  to  his  room, 
verified  some  terminologies,  and  retired. 

Tranquilly,  by  the  light  of  a  little  lamp,  he  read 
Sixtine's  letter. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  KEY  TO  THE  COFFER 

Nice,  Friday. 

ADIEU. 
This  will  be  a  novel  without  an  end,  after 
the  modern  fashion,  for  you  surely  will  write  it? 
If  not,  what  is  the  use?  And  thus  the  fugitive 
shadow  will  pause  an  instant  and  our  vain  inter- 
course will  have  a  realization — oh!  very  relatively 
— through  the  creative  breath  of  Art. 

Without  an  end — unless  Logic  imposes  a  higher 
duty  upon  you. 

Without  an  end, — but  I  have  not  the  cruelty, 
knowing  you  to  be  devoid  of  imagination,  to  let  you 
torture  yourself  in  the  vain  pursuit  of  the  resolu- 
tion of  the  two  or  three  perturbations  which  my 
thoughtless  words  forced  on  your  mind.  So  I  mean 
to  explain  the  few  mysteries — psychological  and 
otherwise — which  might  trouble  the  serenity  of  your 
mornings. 

First,  why  did  I  leave  ?  Ah !  do  not  ask  it  of  me, 
I  no  longer  know  why, — but  it  is  irrevocable. 

What  would  you  ?     He  captured  me.     I  had  to  be 
taken.     How  often  have  I  not  told  you  that  it  was 
necessary  to  take  me  and  by  force  and  ruse  to  cap- 
306 


The  Key  to  the  Coffer  307 

ture  my  wavering  will  ?  There  are  such  fine  strate- 
gies that  one  surrenders,  not  because  of  being  at  the 
end  of  resistance,  but  because  the  stroke  is  so  well 
played  that  it  gives  pleasure.  Ah!  you  believe 
women  are  insensible  to  Art?  At  least,  this  is 
clear:  he  captured  me. 

We  were  waltzing.  He  carried  me  away.  "Carry 
me  where  you  will  !"• — That  was  the  first  sub- 
mission which — mentally — I  made  him. 

It  was  toward  the  hour  when  the  ball's  intoxica- 
tion commenced  to  evaporate  and  left  me  anticipating 
of  the  pleasures  of  sleep.  He  asked  me  for  the 
honor  (see,  nothing  premeditated,  the  honor!)  of 
escorting  me  home,  at  the  very  moment  when,  wish- 
ing to  leave,  I  feared  to  leave  entranced,  and  find 
myself  alone  in  the  night.  I  accepted  and  sent 
him  to  call  a  carriage  and  await  me  there.  But  he 
discovered  that  I  was  still  enjoying  myself:  he  had 
to  wait  several  hours.  Finally,  I  fled  like  Cinder- 
ella. 

I  had  asked  him  to  wait  for  me,  and  he  was  wait- 
ing. 

I  fear  that  all  this  explains  nothing,  but  the  re- 
sult is  still  more  inexplicable.  After  all,  I  only 
wish  to  vindicate  myself  of  all  conspiracy  and  to 
convince  you  of  my  perfect  innocence.  It  was  he, 
it  might  have  been  you, — and  I  believed  that  it  would 
be  you. 

Now,  is  it  my  fault?  The  flower  belongs  to 
him  who  plucks  it. 

I  can  now  confess  to  you.     Dimly,  I  loved  you. 


308  Very  Woman 

Ah !  that  means  a  great  deal !  But  you  did  not  pro- 
ject any  light  on  this  dim  twilight.  Yes,  attempts, 
trials,  approaches,  and  so  on,  with  which  to  make 
a  treatise  on  Analytical  Indecision, — and  then  what? 
In  short,  you  did  not  capture  me ! 

Why  did  I  not  cooperate  in  the  matter?  Ah!  it 
is  not  our  feminine  habit,  and  it  seems  I  have  al- 
ready told  you  that  I  had  been  too  badly  punished  for 
a  first  choice  to  make  a  second  one.  Now,  it  is 
the  same  as  in  the  romances  :  By  the  grace  of  God ! 
And  no  responsibility. 

(I  confess  that  little  was  lacking  for  our  enthron- 
ing to  be  effected,  but  there  are  moments  when  the 
most  reasoned  reserves  become  unmanageable.  But 
you  urge  that  you  held  yourself  tranquil  until  that 
day,  or  almost  so,  arrested  at  the  first  sign,  disarmed 
at  the  first  gesture!  Do  not  say  that  I  encouraged 
you,  for  you  are  not  ignorant  of  the  fact — you 
who  know  women  so  well — that  you  must  not  rely 
on  our  encouragements :  they  are  snares,  a  manner 
of  repetition,  to  find  out,  with  no  peril,  how  it  will 
take  place  some  day  when  we  shall  be  disarmed — 
study  the  advances  another  time  and  see  if  a  mock- 
ery is  not  lodged  in  the  corners  of  the  lips;  they  are 
preliminary  maneuvers,  quite  amusing,  for  even  in 
this  child's  play  we  are  sure  to  conquer  without  al- 
ternatives :  if  our  partner  grows  bold,  O  power  of 
speech!  a  word  puts  him  in  his  place;  if  he  remains 
cold,  we  have  the  consolation  that  after  all  we  lose 
nothing  thereby,  since  the  conclusion  is  impossible.) 

Before  I  was  eighteen,  I  married  the  man  of  my 


The  Key  to  the  Coffer  309 

choice.  Well !  my  great  love  quickly  turned  to  hate. 
What  caused  this  change  of  my  sentiments?  It 
would  be  interesting  to  know,  but  even  at  this  hour 
I  do  not  know  its  mechanism.  I  believe  I  was  like 
the  children  who  want  a  plaything  so  much  that  they 
cry,  stamp  their  feet,  become  convulsed  with  real 
griefs ;  as  soon  as  they  hold  the  toy  in  their  little 
hands,  they  judge  it,  thinking:  "Is  this  all  it  is?" 
What  I  had  chosen  was  only  this.  He  loved  my 
flesh  and  devoured  it  like  an  egoist;  he  uttered  im- 
modest pleasantries  and  debased  acts  beyond  which 
I  felt  infinity  and  the  possible  unveiling  of  the  in- 
effable mystery.  I  thought  myself  the  very  creator 
of  Joy  and  my  pregnant  desires,  my  desires  big  with 
sobs,  miscarried,  became  the  travail  of  a  slave.  I 
knew  my  destination. 

(Imagine!  A  laughter  would  seize  him  after- 
wards, a  nervous  laughter  which  lasted  for  minutes, 
a  laugh  fit  to  scandalize  Hell!) 

Yes,  I  knew  my  destination  and  I  refused  to 
follow  it.  Once  for  all  I  refused  to  play  the  role 
of  a  bestower  of  pleasure  and  a  stimulant.  I  closed 
my  door  for  ever. 

Well,  do  you  know  what  followed?  This  mon- 
ster loved  me  and  could  not  live  without  wallowing 
in  my  body,  in  the  sun  of  my  eyes.  He  entreated 
me,  threatened  me,  turned  himself  into  a  slave  and 
dog.  I  was  deaf.  Many  times  we  struggled,  but  in 
addition  to  the  force  of  my  wrists,  which  are  of 
iron,  I  had  the  force  of  my  will,  which  is  of  steel, 
and  I  threw  him  at  my  feet,  trampled  upon  him, 


310  Very  Woman 

spat  on  his  sex.     This  endured  a  year,  a  long  and 
hateful  year. 

At  last,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  first  refusal, 
he  entreated  me  again,  with  tears  of  love  in  his 
voice,  but  with  a  certain  calm  that  was  quite  noble. 
A  revolver  was  pointed  to  his  breast.  "No,  never!" 
He  fell,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  not  his  fault. 

You  will  find  the  rest  in  your  memories : 

The  resolution  never  again  to  choose ;  the  resolu- 
tion to  sacrifice  myself,  in  expiation  for  the  first 
murder,  in  the  event  of  a  second  and  similar  oc- 
currence. I  think  we  have  already  discussed  these 
two  points : 

That  is  all  the  poison  I  gave,  with  an  unconscious 
hand. 

(Ah!  one  day  you  chilled  me  so  much,  in  hesita- 
ting to  guarantee  my  future.  A  clear  and  spontane- 
ous "yes"  would  have  thrown  me  instantly  into  your 
arms.) 

Saturday. 

This  is  the  legend  of  the  portrait  chamber: 

Every  man  who  sleeps  in  this  chamber  sees,  in  the 
course  of  the  first  night,  the  portrait  of  the  woman 
he  must  love,  reflected  in  the  old  greenish  mirror. 
No  marriage,  no  betrothal,  no  liaison,  no  oath  with- 
stands it :  the  magical  image  thrusts  itself  against  the 
will  and  it  is  like  a  charm. 

Could  I  have  told  this  to  you,  even  laughingly? 

Ah!  it  is  not  written  that  the  possession  will  be 
reciprocated. 

I  admit  that  your  moon-madness,  in  which  I  rec- 


The  Key  to  the  Coffer  31 1 

ognized  myself,  impressed  me.  For  a  long  time  I 
believed  you  were  destined  to  conquer  me.  The 
ancient  and  unreasonable  tradition  haunted  me  like 
a  prophecy.  If  you  had  only  known  in  what  a 
maze  of  mystery  you  courted  me!  For  women 
willingly  curb  their  caprices  under  the  Fatality  which 
consecrate  them  as  tragediennes.  Just  fancy!  To 
be  the  chosen  of  the  centuries  and  of  the  dim  decrees 
of  necessity!  To  fall  into  inevitable  arms!  To 
submit  to  an  exceptional  law,  purposely  made  for 
one !  It  is  this  which  enhances  feminity  for  you 
and  gives  a  value  to  the  sex. 

After  all,  O  analytical  romancer,  you  did  not 
know  how  to  play  with  anything! 

Of  course,  you  will  write  your  novel.  Well,  I 
refuse  to  read  it,  for  it  will  be  full  of  painful 
naivetes.  You  will  naturally  glorify  your  intelli- 
gence, your  sensibility  and  your  understanding  of 
souls,  and  also  negation,  detachment  .  .  . 

Why,  then,  did  you  desire  me?  What  phantom 
did  you  pursue,  if  nothing  exists  outside  of  your 
imagination?  Yet  one  should  be  informed  regard- 
ing the  quality  of  illusions  which  one  faces.  What 
an  alarm  in  the  harem  of  shadows,  among  the  forms 
you  murdered,  bluebeard  of  the  ideal!  Have  you 
counted  them?  I  am  the  seventh,  without  a  doubt, 
the  one  who  opens  the  locked  room  .  .  .  "And  they 
passed  their  swords  through  his  body."  Thus  Life 
has  killed  the  Dream.  Adieu. 

P.  S.  Besides,  you  should  know  that  he  is  not 
a  nobody.  Monsieur  Renaudeau  is  going  to  publish 


312  Very  Woman 

his  drama — so  moving,  so  full  of  genius.  He  told 
me  this  the  other  evening,  at  the  home  of  the  coun- 
tess. And  this  despite  you  and  your  gentle  con- 
tempt, despite  you  who  disparaged  him, — without 
knowing  him!  After  all  cui  bono  .  .  .  After  all, 
after  all! 


CHAPTER  XL 


ULTIMATE  PEACE 

"Muchas  vezes,  Senor  mio,  considerp  que 
si  con  algo  se  puede  sustentar  el  virvir  sin 
vos,  es  en  la  soledad,  porque  descansa  el 
alma  con  su  descanso." 

Sainte  Theresa,  Exclamations  of  the 
Soul  to  its  God. 

"  T  WAS  mistaken,"  Hubert  reflected,  upon 
_£  awaking.  "This  letter  is  full  of  interest,  but 
I  do  not  understand  this  need  of  railing  at  me  in  six 
small  pages.  And  then  to  repeat  at  each  line:  'If 
you  had  known,  if  you  had  been  able!'  Has  she 
climbed  on  the  stilts  of  her  happiness!  Yes,  she  is 
happy  because  a  male  has  thrown  himself  at  her 
and  has  nailed  her  on  the  cross.  Ah !  it  will  be  neces- 
sary to  rise,  to  carry  it,  to  bend  under  the  burden. 
Ah!  it  will  bear  you  down  and  your  lover  will 
mount  upwards  and  stamp  his  foot  on  you,  for 
this  retaliation  is  due  you. 

"Oh!  I  am  not  thirsty  for  vengeance  and  I 
do  not  desire  to  quench  my  thirst  in  the  blood  which 
will  flow  from  your  severed  veins :  I  do  not  even 
wish  to  see  you  and  I  shut  you  out  from  my  im- 
agination. 

"Only  .  .  .  Ah !  the  wretch !     She  does  not  seem 
to  suspect  that  I  loved  her !     Everything,  under  the 
3i3 


314  Very  Woman 

shelter  of  passional  metaphysics,  amounted  to  a  ques- 
tion of  adroit  and  decisive  shrewdness.  Yes,  love  is 
joiner's  work. 

"And  I  go  into  the  great  absence,  but  with  no 
mental  reservations.  I  shall  not  conjure  the  super- 
ficial magics  of  Claudius  Mamertinus ;  I  have  per- 
fected them,  but  I  shall  use  neither  those  nor  my 
own.  The  great  absence,  as  one  speaks  of  the 
great  desert,  without  water  and  without  love !  But 
the  Egyptian  woman  lived  there  forty  years  with 
four  tiny  loaves  of  bread  which  she  had  bought  at 
Jerusalem;  she  nibbled  at  them,  when  she  was  very 
hungry.  I,  too,  shall  gnaw  at  my  memories,  but 
not  to  excess,  and  without  straining  for  grievous 
corporeal  images.  I  wish  to  meditate  in  peace. 
Mark  you,  Sixtine,  this  is  because  of  my  great- 
ness of  soul,  for  I  could  have  carried  you  off  on 
my  shoulders  and  thrown  you  into  my  cavern,  where 
the  bones  of  hyenas,  dead  of  hunger,  can  be  seen. 
You  see  that  it  is  not  cheerful.  So  I  spare  you  this 
exile.  Nevertheless,  'you  should  know  what  cor- 
poreal vision  is  and  you  will  refrain,  when  you  think 
of  your  absent  friend,  from  thinking  him  really  ab- 
sent. You  think  of  him,  and  he  appears  before  you 
corporeally,  since  you  are  thinking  of  his  body  (and 
how  think  of  him  otherwise,  since  the  body  is  the 
sign  of  his  existence  and  humanity?)  And  he  will 
rise  up  before  you,  and  likewise,  across  all  obstacles, 
you  will  go  into  his  presence,  and  he  will  see  you.' 
And  the  author  of  De  Statu  Animae  (he  also  wrote 
the  Pange,  lingua:  he  was  not  a  fool),  after  reflect- 


Ultimate  Peace  315 

ing,  adds:  'Vision  is  the  true  function  of  the  in- 
telligent'; and  'the  image  of  things  is  their  true 
reality.' 

"No,  I  shall,  indeed,  content  myself  with  little 
loaves  of  bread;  you  will  not  suffer  from  my  fa- 
miliarities. In  his  'Monitories,'  Thomas  Aquinas 
says  that  too  great  familiarity  begets  scorn  at  the 
same  time  that  it  turns  one  aside  from  contempla- 
tion and  fixes  the  mind  on  external  things. 

"He  gives  the  example  of  Saint  Dominic  who, 
having  too  affectionate  friends  at  Toulouse,  went  to 
live  at  Carcassonne. 

"Well,  I  do  not  wish  to  scorn  you  under  the 
vain  pretext  that  you  have  fulfilled  your  womanly 
calling,  and  I  wish  to  meditate  in  peace,  for  there 
remains  nothing  else  for  me  to  do.  So,  I  leave  you 
to  your  loves  and  I  go  to  the  great  desert.  Adieu." 

Hubert,  in  turning  over  his  theological  books, 
was  already  capturing  a  little  of  the  peace  he  desired. 
As  long  as  Sixtine  had  remained,  he  had  forgotten 
them  for  readings  more  in  accord  with  his  perturba- 
tions and  desires.  While  putting  the  two  tomes  back 
in  their  place,  he  paused  in  front  of  this  shelf  of  his 
library,  spelling  out  the  faded  letters  of  gold,  sur- 
prised at  not  always  being  able  to  guess  them  cor- 
rectly. His  Origen  tempted  him :  he  promised  him- 
self to  commence  the  long  deferred  study  of  it. 
Under  his  fingers,  the  volume  opened  on  the  "Com- 
mentary on  the  Song  of  Songs,"  irony  of  Virgilian 
fortunes.  "His  left  hand  is  under  my  head,  and 
his  right  hand  doth  embrace  me."  But  Origen,  who 


316  Very  Woman 

remarks  that  there  is  everything  in  this  movement 
of  the  right  hand,  "omnia  sunt,"  warns  against  stop- 
ping at  sensual  interpretations.  "It  is  just  as  well, 
I  am  not  in  the  mood  for  it." 

He  closed  the  book  and  returned  to  his  chair. 
He  re-read  the  fourth  chapter  of  "The  Adorer," 
congratulating  himself  on  having  resolved  the  su- 
preme fate  of  Guido  according  to  necessary  conse- 
quences : 

"At  least  my  dream  will  be  logical,  as  she  desires. 
If  life  eludes  me,  transcendency  belongs  to  me.  I 
have  paid  very  dearly  for  it,  I  have  paid  for  it  with 
the  price  of  all  terrestrial  joys.  The  fruits  I  bite 
into  are  bubbles  that  soon  vanish,  but  the  bubbles 
which  issue  from  my  lips  take  flight,  soar  and  en- 
dure: refracted  through  them,  my  ideas,  like  sun- 
beams become  prismatic,  and,  with  them  plays  the 
eternal  wind  which  levels  the  world. 

"In  losing  you,  Sixtine,  I  have  found  myself 
again.  But  I  confess,  Madame,  that  it  is  not  a  com- 
pensation worth  considering.  Although  you  judged 
me  an  egoist  and  although  I  admit  this  charge,  I 
bear  myself  no  love.  A  little  hate,  rather,  when  I 
surmount  indifference,  for  I  feel  that  I  am  only  a 
bad  instrument  in  the  hands  of  an  unknown  and 
transcendental  Master, — a  Master  who  laughs  so 
apropos  when  I  abuse  my  soul  .  .  .  Destined  to 
what  labor?  Ah!  he  knows!  .  .  . 

"Tell  me,  Master!  Think  of  the  invincible  dis- 
gust with  which  my  brothers  and  sisters  fill  me! 
Consider  that  I  need  distractions!  .  .  O  Lord  of 


Ultimate  Peace  317 

the  gloomy  blue  meadows  where  Chimerae  browse 
among  the  stars,  tell  me  my  secret  and  I  shall  be 
capable  of  true  devotion  .  .  .  Already  I  love  the 
grace  of  your  saints,  for  they  were  alone,  deliciously 
alone:  .  .  .  Often,  O  Lord,  I  consider  that  if 
anything  could  sustain  life  without  thee,  it  is  soli- 
tude, for  there  the  soul  rests  in  its  peace  .  .  ." 

THE  END 


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